It's Just a Game
by 8bitmatter
Summary: With the American Scholastic Lottery Act renewed for it's ninth, and grandest television season yet. Everyone will be cast in the limelight, some by choice, and most others by force. Fifty students, three days; two-percent odds of survival. It's just a game... (Humanized Ponies with Human names)
1. Paved With Good Intentions

**Warning:** This story is rated M for pervasive violence and torture, vivid depictions of blood and gore, death (of teenagers and human ponies alike) and weapons, nudity, sex and pervasive themes, strong language, drug use as well as many other adult themes. That being said, if you don't feel mature enough to handle the subjects and concepts mentioned above, it is your prerogative to leave. Read at your own discretion. Any damages, physical or emotional, possibly brought on directly or indirectly by the reading of this story is the sole responsibility of whomever committed said action and the author holds no responsibility.

**Legal Note: **This story is a non-profit work of fiction based on the concept of the "Battle Royale". This work of fiction holds no parallel to Toei Company Ltd., the producers of Battle Royale, Koushun Takami, Viz Comics, Hasbro, Lauren Faust and any of the companies, real or imagined, mentioned in this story. All products, brands, television shows, movies, music, books, plays and all other mediums of corporate products and artistic publication belong to their respective owners. And while most of the characters are of the authors own creation, many of them are based off of their pony counterparts (from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic), all of whom respectively belong to Hasbro, Lauren Faust and co. and whomever else is involved with the making of the show, toys, and ideas in general. There are multiple references to other fanfictions within the Brony fandom, and those literary pieces belong to their respective creators. The author in no way intends to profit from this story in any way, shape, or form. Names of the characters are still of the author's conceiving, in spite of them being living incarnations of cartoon ponies. How the author portrays the respective characters in this work may not necessarily reflect how he feels about them in canon. If you wish to clear any ambiguity on who is based off of what, leave in reviews or PM the author for answers. With all of that said, enjoy.

* * *

_"The chance won't come again_  
_And don't speak too soon_  
_For the wheel's still in spin_  
_And there's no tellin' who_  
_That it's namin'._  
_For the loser now_  
_Will be later to win_  
_For the times they are a-changin'..."_

**-Bob Dylan**

* * *

Today was a glorious day. It was Graduation Day! The weather was predictably perfect; it was probably God's way of commemorating this special day. And no one could be happier than one Jerry Tran (Boy #5). He was enthusiastically on the bus waiting for the remaining students to board the vehicle so they could depart. The bus was labeled "Coleridge Bus Lines Bus #23"; it could have read "Rainbow Factory" for all he cared. They were all set to transport to a kickass 4- star hotel in Anaheim, California. _Right next to Disneyland… that place never gets old…_

Jerry had a euphoric blast of nostalgia as he began reminiscing of all of his favorite rides at the children's utopia._ Oh how 'bout the Matterhorn, or California Screamin! God it's all just so good!_

Here it was, in spite of all the delinquency, despite the hassle, no one gave a crap on all of the effort put towards orchestrating this event. This was it, their final moments of legal childhood. After this was the senior class' of Cold Rivers High School metamorphosis into adulthood with their future stages of life ahead of them; Some planned to aspire to the very top of the hierarchal pyramid of society, while others were planning to indulge in more… pastoral ways of life. Ironic how these young adults are celebrating their transformation into maturity by visiting a wonderland for kids half their age (Many would argue you never outgrow Disneyland).

There were about half a dozen or so buses all lined up for the same purpose; as conveyance for the many, many teenagers delegated for travel. While most of them had the capacity to occupy at least seventy-five students (seldom could this school afford something that… luxurious), the one he was designated to board held only 60% of the space as the others (only around fifty seats). They said it was a "privilege" for "extra special" students, _whatever that meant. _He was in the 3rd row ahead of the rear of the bus. If they had this many buses for one trip, that meant that this was huge, no, COLOSSAL!

The air was filled with a cheerful and vibrant energy as Jerry was eagerly awaiting departure. A wide smile was plastered on his face and he had sparks in his eyes. By no means was he the only student on the bus. Looking to the left he saw Octavia Manago (Girl #16) and Vicky Sanchez (Girl #22).

Octavia is Half Korean, a Quarter- Greek_, _and a Quarter-Hungarian (as she says anyways) with a surname that only reflected one of those. She's best known as the first -chair cellist in the school orchestra. If she applied herself, she could easily make a career out of her superb musicianship (or at least get into Juilliard and make it from there). Of course, she could just as easily get jobs for her smoking hot body, as with her bodies of work. She had curves in all of the right places (_as well as MEAT in all of the right places)_; long, straight and neatly kept black hair that is as elegant and regal as the women whose scalp it was currently attached to. If the sun caught it in the right angle, it seemed to shimmer like starlets in the night sky. Jerry being a stage tech-hand in the theater and an overall drama-nerd himself (and dubbed as a phenomenal actor by some, and poet) he could definitely appreciate her eloquence and the way she chose to express herself. She makes art through sound; he makes art through written and gestural/spoken persuasions and movements. On a personal note, she can be very cold and is a bit of a bitch at times (others would say much worse than that). However, everything about her… her seatmate was a pure contrast.

Victoria "Vicky" (or other times 'Vinyl') Sanchez, An English-born girl of Mexican heritage (that's a rarity) is also a musician. However, rather than pursuing interests in the realm of say Mozart or Beethoven. She is a techno music (_She calls it "dub-step", apparently it's quite popular out there, but I've never heard of it_) junkie. She is an aspiring Disc Jockey who can typically be found working at local clubs and actually fueling the parties with her high-tech beats and rhythms and playful attitude. She even makes her own music thanks to all of the sound equipment her wealthy parents are able to afford. Aside from musical preferences, they also tremendously differ in personality. While Octavia is a cultured and sophisticated, yet aloof girl; Vicky on the other hand is a rampant hedonist who is about as tomboyish as it gets. She can drink, curse, burp, and fight on the same level as any sailor. She's rude, crude… yet still quite delightful. While she is irrefutably the much more loquacious of the duo, she is also the more comforting and… warm. She has the capability to be a really nice girl, like the time she was able to assure and soothe Flora Sharpe (Girl #11) enough through her bout of low self esteem to get her to sing at last month's talent show… and _win it_! Or the time she beat the crap out of that dickhead Andre (Boy #24) for bullying Leonard Tagashi (Boy #21). Her two defining aesthetic traits were those large purple-tinted shades she always seemed to don even at night and school hours and her electric blue hair… some parts of it were cerulean, others were midnight blue if Jerry had to pick two different pigments of the color.

You know that saying "opposites tend to attract one another" (more a statement than a question); well these two absolutely confirm that. Despite such vast differences, they still seem to be the best of friends and share each others company in harmony.

In the row in front of the Vietnamese youth was another duo, the Goth and pseudo-hippie couple of Brayden Dillinger (Boy #17) and Morgan Zachary (Girl #21). Morgan is of African-American descent, and is into all things dark (not including guys apparently) and nihilistic. She certainly dresses like a Goth, yet she still denies being a part of that "emo bitch crowd", while Brayden on the other hand was sort of the class stoner with his mind deeply embedded in the "flower power" ideology.

Turning his head to the rear, he saw many of his fellow colleagues; specifically the more sordid and lesser-known students, the misfits (not unpopular kids, just people who didn't fit in with much of anyone); such as that quiet, wiry boy Joel (Boy#14), the lesbian couple of Bonnie Navarro (Girl#6) and Lyra Archer (Girl#25), that introverted All-American-Arab (_Try saying that three times fast_) Mallick (Boy#25), that rat-faced, gawky Russian techie Michael (Boy#9), And the other Russian (far more attractive than Michael), a gorgeous girl by the name of Natalya (Girl#3) whom was also very promiscuous in spite of being in a seemingly committed relationship with one Isaac Daniels (Boy #16). What was up with that?

The rear row which the aisle of the bus ended was still empty for some bizarre reason was suddenly occupied by the class "criminals", or rather a group of druggies and delinquents most other people never bothered to associate with.

They were: Anthony Rojas (Boy#19) the Mexican who's like a pit-bull, very muscular, not that bright, rather pug looking, and extremely loyal to his friends. He was on the utmost left. Next to him was there 'leader' (more like figurehead) Walter Peterson (Boy#3), a tall and muscular African-American boy. He is the school's primary drug dealer (likely because he ratted out all of the other one's thus eliminating the competition) and has a long legacy of fractious behavior, from gang- fights, to graffiti, to other acts of petty vandalism and theft. It seemed like a mutual-unspoken agreement- that he was in charge due to his aggressive nature and being the most dangerous of them all. Overall, he was a tried and true scumbag. The 3rd of their group was definitely the least objectionable of the bunch, and for lack of better terms, Walter's current _fuck du jour_.

One Ms. Beryl "Berry" Puckett (Girl #19); the borderline-alcoholic party girl (_still hot_ _despite the possible damage brought on by such a libertine lifestyle; that and the occasional beating brought on by Walter), _While she was always a drinker, it always perplexed Jerry why she would even consider hooking up with an asshole as bad as Walter_. _She was basically a puppet under his control. She was a very pretty girl, a naturally sanguine face (that has faded slightly due to subsiding bruises and many sleepless nights) that was heart-shaped. A petite yet curved figure, C-cup breasts, and a round and well-shaped rear; as well as her healthy dark chestnut hair.

The two remaining members were arguably even more perplexing than the other three put together. First was Rodney Woodrow (Boy#22), By appearance he seemed like your typical thug; He had a beefy build and almost always wore clothes affiliated with sports teams (the New York Yankee's was a team he seemed to particularly admire) However there was always a certain pensive look about him… he was always the tacit one… never talking, never really taking part in their debauchery, it was if all he did was merely occupy their space… strange. As if all he was doing was basking in their idiocy and just waiting to do… something. _Not like it's any of my business._

Then last but certainly not least was possibly the last person you'd expect to be in a ghetto-gang… an Asian (not Cambodian or Filipino, pacific-rim)! If you could still believe it, an honors student as well! It was Mickey Chiang (Boy#4); He was a strange case and a very unlikely gangster… while academically he excelled with straight A's and even as far to be endowed enough in speech to compete on the debate team and according to rumors; he was well on his way to Stanford to study emergency medicine. He still somehow managed to wind up with the bad crowd… It really didn't make sense to the boy and he really didn't wish to pursue it further. That kid is an amalgam of two different high school stereotypes.

Normally he would have dreaded having the ghetto kids on the bus… they still had a camaraderie around them that seemed to be projected outwards by silent confidence (_key word being silent_). Thankfully they were just being quiet for once and just remained to themselves while indulging in their current agenda (passing a plastic baggie full of vodka soaked watermelon cubes around, Berry in particular really seemed to relish it).

As he finished analyzing the group behind him; a torrent of noise that can only be associated with a party of giggly teenage girls shot up from the entrance, he then gave notice to another group that boarded… and by god was it lovely sight for a teenage male such as himself.

They weren't exactly that typical pack of cheerleading, conniving bitches; in terms of behavior. However they seemed glued to each other like they were. They were often considered to be six of the prettiest girls in the school and not only masters of the scholastic (excluding April and Rain) and social realm, but also maintained the loyalist and tightest-knit friendships amongst Cold Rivers High and never once affronted an innocent person. They were the Pallet Girls (As Ronald Vaughn once dubbed them.)_ I wonder if it's because of their hair colors._

In order of appearance they were: Mitsumi Sato (Girl#5), always the leader and genius of the group (she certainly was quite sexy for a bookworm however). She gingerly walked while swaying her hips left and right (intentional or not, it was quite arousing to look at). Directly beside her was Leonard (Boy#21), her "little brother", not biologically, but in spirit. He certainly looked as if he could be her younger sibling. Being only 5'5 and sharing a Japanese heritage similar to hers and constantly being around one another, those two were practically joined at the hip (not in a sexual way either). Jerry found it truly astounding how Leonard could be surrounded by six total hotties on an almost daily basis, and yet to his knowledge, he was a virgin. _Of course it's common knowledge that he is head over heels in love with that Violet girl and has a near puritanical devotion to her, according to the school grapevine and how he overall acts around her. Course since when has that been reliable? Shame he's so invested to her… Abigail, Scotti, and Shira talk about him all the time… what a player…_

Following their flank was the energetic and hyperactive Diane (Girl#13) whose face was brimming with ecstatic glee as she was cheerfully humming to herself and kept her hands clamped together over her enormous breasts; As well as Violet (Leonard's crush) (Girl#24) the glamorous fashionista who already was an endowed seamstress who has great potential as being a big-league in the garment business (and at only 18 years old), and while all six of them were rather gorgeous, she tended to be the one to turn the most heads in the hallways. Next was a trio of students relating to the same clique. Rain Forscythe (Girl#15) and two of the Macintosh triplets, April (Girl#2) and Hank, or as some called him, "Big Mac" (Boy#18).

Rain was the athlete and tomboy of the group. She's the fastest sprinter in the school; and has even surpassed Spencer Ryan (Boy#10) and Sheila Frisk in their versatility and speed. Also being a streetcar racer and motorcycle enthusiast, she had the boisterous attitude and the street cred behind her to back up her inflated ego and cockiness. She was just tough, simple as that.

April and Hank are twins and share certain attributes. They are both hard workers, very strong, conservatives, and incredibly charming towards the opposite gender. They are both also from Missouri… specifically the Ozark regions, so they both have southern drawls to their voices, are quite provincial with salt-of-the-earth logic and they have an undeserved stigma as stereotypical rednecks.

Socially standing, Hank was an all-American star football player. Coupled with years of heavy working on apple orchards has given him an amazingly hunky body accompanied with a light tan that really helped give him an even pigment to his ex-wan skin. Despite his popularity with the jocks due to his athletic performance and more decent-half of the school's student body due to his good looks and easy-going nature, he never once exploited his fame to try and pick up women (or men, it was a common dispute amongst Hank's peers as to what his sexuality really was). He was the kind of guy to give another man the shirt off his back in the middle of Saudi Arabia, just because the man liked the color of it more than his own. He held a stern façade that seemed to only be accentuated due to how little he actually spoke, but beneath the surface, he was a huge softie; Moving on to his sister.

April was about the third fastest track runner behind Rain and Spencer amongst Cold Rivers student Alumni. And also worked on the family's apple farm, which gave her a voluptuous yet well-toned frame of pure muscle, along with long flowing sandy-blonde hair styled in a ponytail, she was a southern belle to behold. She is also one of the strongest girls in the school with brawn that rivaled any MALE athlete. She commonly won arm-wrestling bets and backyard boxing matches against meat-headed guys that weren't above socking pretty girls after a few drinks. If any accounts from guys who lost to her during those fights implicated anything, it was that she could take it, and dish it out.

And finally bringing up the rear was Flora (Girl#11). Sweet, shy, sexy, Flora… Aside from Violet; she definitely gets the most attention from other kids (good from boys, bad from envious girls). Her naturally alluring looks, curved and attractive frame and prodigiously large breasts (F cups). She was a full-blown knockout. However due to her timid nature, any of the decent guys wanted to protect her rather than hit on her. Her innately cherubic singing voice was as enchanting as The Deadly Sirens from Homer's Odyssey and easily earned her first chair in the female choir and won her many karaoke competitions and the local clubs. So long story short, she was gosh darn close to perfection. Too bad she never seemed to think so. _Man she's so gorgeous it's almost a sin!_

Any observant person may have noticed the faint blush coming on her face upon ogling the large country boy in front of her. She, always being the tacit one didn't say a word to him and instead nervously followed her friends while drumming her fingers on the passing seats.

Leonard and Hank being the outsiders of the clique remained naturally silent. In the latter's case, Hank; he was just being himself. (_Always was a man of few words)_.

Next was the timid head newspaper editor Brianna Hughes (Girl#1) who was quite pretty in a mousy way and even kind of hot once you undid the ponytail and got those wide-rimmed, thick-speckled glasses off. Beside her was her boy friend Logan Heffley (Boy#13). A slim boy of African-American descent, he was a polar opposite of her in many respects. While she was short he was tall, while she was white he was black, while she was introverted he was extroverted, while she was a pushover he was a fervent political speaker in the student council, so on and so forth. Made it all the more mystifying on how they became an item in the first place.

Violet's stepsister Shira (Girl#8) and the "little sister" of the Macintosh Triplets, Abigail (Girl#10) stepped on and was almost louder than everyone else on the bus put together. Considering how more than 20 other students were aboard, it would take a duo of world-class noisemakers to permeate the orchestra of conjoined conversations of almost 25 teenagers. But they did it; they honestly did not seem like high school seniors both in appearance, and personality. They were both as pure and innocent as two school age children, and both didn't look a day older than fifteen. And they personally were both beatniks, infantile ones, yet never meant any harm or to offend anyone. They continued their conversation with a complete lack of volume control and blissfully unaware to the amount of noise they were making.

A masculine voice from the back bellowed a thundering "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Short and wiry Indian boy Vikram (Boy#15) was startled by the loud outburst and dashed to the nearest seat.

It was Walter who said that. They both immediately piped down; however that rude gesture attracted some hostile attention from the two girl's older siblings.

April and Violet both glared at him and admonished him with mini speeches of disapproval. He flippantly gave them the finger and proceeded to call them a slur of misogynistic profanities.

Indignant, they both scooted out of their respective seats and prepared to give him a piece of their minds. Walter, never one to back down from a challenge (_let alone from two worthless sluts_), Got up from his seat, not having the common decency to never maltreat a lady, and was ready to slug it out with the inbred-hick and the vapid diva. Mickey and Beryl tried restraining the rowdy young man, but he easily overthrew their efforts. Just as it seemed nasty words would turn to blows… Hank, from almost out of nowhere, stepped in between the three and kept them separated from one another (with considerably more ease on the two girls end). After a brief struggle from Walter, he simply gave up, called the three of them "cock-sucking assfaces "and grumpily returned to the rear of the bus with his gang while staring daggers at the trio of teens; Violet, Hank, and April than moved to the front of the bus to join their relatives and apologize for the display of inordinate conduct.

Cheryl (Girl#20) poked her head up from her seat two rows behind Shira and Abigail and quietly observed Hank as he consulted the two beatniks. _He is soooooooo HOT! _You could see her face flush red and a twinkle of lust shimmering in her eyes; She was eying him like a hungry dog would to a Porterhouse steak. It was amazingly conspicuous that she had the hots for the country boy (_What, who said girls couldn't be horndogs?_). She licked her lips sultrily as she sunk her fingers into the leather seat in front of her, and resumed her libidinous fantasies involving Her, Hank, and whips and chocolate sauce.

With the conflict diffused. Jerry diverted his attention back to a few of the other "selected students" (_quite a diverse array of kids, we got everything from ghetto kids, to Sierra-Mist style girls, to nerds, and everything in between_). Devout geek Nick (Boy#23), baseball player Roger (Boy#2), and six-and-a-half foot tall basketball elite Toby (Boy#12) all boarded in quick succession.

Then three girls followed in a circumstantial order: Trixie (Girl#9), Lily (Girl#4), and Pamela (Girl#18). The trio were all travelers of the same social circle, Lily and Pamela being "besties" and Trixie merely being a mutual friend. That was all nice and dandy, but when it all boiled down, all three of them were pretty big bitches when it came down to it.

The two skater dudes Alex (Boy#7) and Mathias (Boy#20) were talking up a storm about apparently what the best brand of paint is safest to huff (_boy, 'safe' and_ _'huff' are two words I thought I'd never hear in the same sentence_), which really said something about their intelligence. They simply kept up their oafish conversation and body language and plopped down into the closest unoccupied space.

At this point the bus was on the very brim of full occupancy when the teacher behind this whole trip boarded… it was Mr. Vaughn. Possibly the most beloved teacher in Cold Rivers history, almost every graduating senior at some point passed through his Modern World History class. He was a man approaching his autumn years of life (He is 63 years of age) with a barreled chest and a head of silver hair with a receding line. With a lifetime of worldly experience and an intelligent and soothing aura that he seemed to emanate; he was easily one of the most approachable teachers who was more than willing to provide students with advice from insipid and menial things like homework, to more practical subjects like how to deal with a breakup or how to properly treat certain STD's. He was the kind of man that was impossible to hate. And he dearly requited the love for almost all of his students (except maybe Mr. Peterson or Mr. Golden). He held a clipboard in his large and hairy-knuckled hands and was casually taking attendance. Every now and again he would look up from the clipboard just for a brief second and continue to jot things down with his orange Ticonderoga.

"…Woodrow…Zachary….Fooorrrrty Niiiineee; that's a nice even number, right?" He deadpanned. "Ahhhhwell… ALL ABOARD WHO'S COMING ABOARD!" He quickly added in a booming yell.

The automatic doors shut and the vehicle was in gear and ready to go.

While Jerry could only identify about forty students he was quite certain until this point at least fifty were aboard, turns out they're missing someone, but whom?

As if on cue, a rushed and rapid series of consecutive knocks could be heard on the Plexiglas. Outside the translucent material was what appeared to be a distorted brown and black blob?

Pondering for nary a second, Mr. Vaughn spoke. "Alright open the door."

The pneumatic doors opened mechanically and the distorted figure was none other than Isaac Daniels (Boy#16), the altruistic star water-polo player whose powerful figure and muscular legs that brought the Cold River Titans to state championships. He smiled sheepishly and leaned on his right side anxiously.

"Sorry for running late, I had some things I had to organize with my folks prior to the bus ride and I sorta lost track of time." The black boy explained.

"Hmmmm… for anyone else I would have said to get this show on the road and leave whomever didn't make it in the dust… but for a mega-athlete such as yourself. I'll make an exception!" Mr. Vaughn then smiled warmly at Isaac and extended his hand forward as a sign of benevolence. Isaac gladly did the same and responded in kind by tightly shaking his former-teacher's hand.

"Thank you very much Mr. Vaughn"

"Ahh don't mention it. But Mr. Vaughn was my father, call me Ron!"

Those who heard Ronald Vaughn's hearty attempt at light humor chuckled sincerely and were filled with that much more enthusiasm.

Isaac dashed to the back and took his seat besides Natalya.

"Well now that all fifty of our little devils are present" he paused and narrowed his eyes. "Let's get this bitch on the road!" He said with a renewed vigor.

With all fifty of the students settled, and the raucous subsiding. They were all ready for travel to three days of childhood delight.

* * *

Two hours into the drive however, the anonymous bus driver whom no one paid any attention to now had the go to instigate his assigned role. By appearance he didn't seem too extraordinary. A thin and wiry Latino with a thin and near transparent moustache, a head of thick, gruff black hair that came off him in gnarls, and a rugged and stern looking face that almost looked like he was haunted by something, he truly wasn't anything to give a second thought about… at first glance. However, as the cliché went, looks could be _very_ deceiving.

He was actually a military official disguised as a homely and insipid school bus driver. _Disgraceful, yet as pathetic as this job is, it is widely sought after amongst the ranks of the military_. It equates to an immense increase in payroll due to how imperative the safe transportation of the "participants" is.

Pvt. Victor Ortega, the auspicious soldier delegated in instigating the first step in preparing the countries Annual "Battle Royale". His job was simple, Pick up the chosen class (_one in a million chance, what poor bastards_), gas 'em (non-lethal knockout gas of course, not like the tragedy in '01), and bring them to a designated government facility for further processing. It's rather grueling having to drive these little _punki's _for over five hours, but it's worth it to not only bring the family 'cross the border, but get a two million dollar bonus as frosting on the cake!

He had yet to do the dirty deed. First he needed to strap on his government-assigned gas mask, will prove mighty helpful once they start pumping the mist-tranquilizers in.

The din within the bus had diminished considerably since the drive had began, as most were either napping, whispering amongst groups of friends, or doing other electronic ventures of their own volition (i.e. playing with phones, listening to music, or portable gaming).

It's a real shame this has to be done, he's essentially bringing them through the Styx River to hell on earth, but it's a necessary evil to appease the greedy masses. This was supposed to be a night to remember, too bad none of the kids are gonna be doing any of the remembering.

Victor let out a sigh as he put on the mask. He turned his head around one last time to see if any kids were sound of mind enough to notice Victor's newest piece of high-tech face wear. _Nope, out like a lightbulb. But now to make sure they stay that way._

He turned his attention back to the dashboard and went to the task at hand and pressed a conspicuously large red button on the console of the vehicle.

Soon enough, a faint hissing sound could be heard coming from the ceiling, indicating the gas was being readily pumped throughout the air.

Vic let out a wry laugh that only he could hear due to the muffling of the plastic mask cupping over his mouth.

"_Buenos Noches_, _ninos!"_ he remarked dryly.

* * *

**Author's Note: ****What do you think so far? I'd appreciate any constructive criticism you may have for my first work on this site. What do you think of the introduction of the characters? Do you like them, do you not? Whatever the case please let me know if there's anyway I can improve this in future chapters. Of course most haven't had much limelight yet, and the program won't officially begin for two or three more chapters. But in the meantime, please tell me what you think. Thanks, until next time. **


	2. Behind The Scenes: Preparation

Though no one in the pay-per-view audience knew (or really cared) about the logistics and planning that went on behind a Battle Royale, the administrators and government officials that made it happen sure did. From capture to eventual release into the field, every part of the way was heavily regulated and every man and woman involved was trained to perfection to make sure all went well. The process that was refined and revised over the past seven years for setting up the classroom introduction and preparing the contestants required constant attentiveness and very special care and consideration.

The Battle Royale hadn't always been a highly anticipated, televised event that legions of people went axe crazy over. No, it started off as a survival program adopted from the Republic of Greater East Asia, (primarily Japan) as a means to instill fear within the student population and quell the tremendous nihilistic, youth rebellion in the nation through fear of being elected for the next Battle Royale. It wasn't until Japan started televising its games and they caught note of how well the ratings and merchandise revenue had been. At the time, the Program wasn't famous; in fact, it was officially classified as a military research project, clandestine to the core and only the Japanese government and the students involved with the project were truly aware of the unbelievable depravity and horrors that existed within it.

While there was initial revolt from those aware of the Program's existence, the overwhelming majority of the citizenry still remained tragically unaware of the Program's proceedings. When America borrowed the concept from their Asian neighbors and launched it under "The American Scholastic Lottery Act for the Fiscal year of 1999", many voiced their disapproval to it's premise, let alone it's rise to a nationally televised event. But ultimately, the ones responsible for it's Western adaptation pushed it through, and in the end it shared it's premiere date with the release of the Sega Dreamcast; September 9th, 1999.

And hot damn if it didn't work out beautifully. Though the iconoclastic season, and an undeniable classic, many found that broadcast to be obsolete compared today's standards, and even during it's manufacturing, proved to be rather problematic. It was essentially an archive of grainy camera footage that barely managed to capture the essence and thrill of all the Program was about, and the original class was hardly the optimal standard of modern era. Nevertheless it was deemed an explosive success and the Battle Royale phenomenon spread like wildfire, catching the whole subculture of American television by storm. Audience feedback was superb, and the ratings had never been higher. Seeing the success of the first broadcasted Battle Royale, the higher ups decided to continue to televise the coming seasons.

Of course, the hype and popular opinion went down drastically due to the fiascoes of the two subsequent seasons (2000, and 2001), but all it took was the magical year of 2002, the successful year of the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics and Men In Black II to revitalize the Battle Royale's notoriety with it's smash hit season. And it only got bigger and better as the years progressed. Massively publicized and well endorsed by celebrities and corporations alike, the Battle Royale program quickly became one of the nation's best celebrated cultural icons, tantamount to football and apple pie.

Digressing however and merely enumerating the steps mandated for preparation however, the first step was perhaps the most creative one… Pick a class. After all the contestants are what make the game so watchable, (no one wants to watch a bunch of boring John and Jane Doe's kill one another off after all) aren't they? Make sure it's a diverse class with a very wide assortment of people; after all, variety is the spice of life (or death in this case). They would hand select from pretty much every type of student one can imagine. Some of the brightest minds in the school, the most beautiful people, the strongest and most intimidating bodies, and simply… the most unpredictable and least mono-dimensional characters they could find; some real loose cannons! And this class seemed like the best one since the BR's inception! I mean we've got a bit of everything, jocks, nerds, athletes of all shapes and sizes, and many other surprises. Due to the status quo perpetuated by various civil rights movements throughout our country, we had to make sure we included students of every major race and religion and we couldn't discriminate against any one student for their ethnic heritage. All in all it was a plethora of variegated teens.

After the ideal cast has been selected they are brought to a designated base via bus ride for the actual processing and induction into the grand event. They are heavily sedated and kept unconscious for a minimum of three days. Surely having an immense amount of sedatives in one's system for such a long period of time could possibly lead to an overdose (which has happened in the past) despite the best and most sought after medical professionals observing them twenty-four hours a day. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you look at it) not a single contestant out of the original pool of students has succumbed to such a pitiful fate (an ironic way to die, but that's what alternates are for). In the event of an overdose or liquidation due to poor health, an alternate student from the school not originally from the bus is transported to the base to take the deceased's place in the roster (Some alternates have already been delegated in addition to the original lineup, but just in case this precaution was always taken as an extra measure).

Which brings us to our next evaluation, prime physical and psychological condition; we would assess the selected individuals health and psychiatric records meticulously to check for any pre-existing conditions that could lead to an early expiration (that of course would result in having to exterminate the person in question). Mentally we would evaluate if they were sane (or insane) enough to meet conditions to have a fairly long lifespan in a Battle Royale if in normal circumstances of such a stressful occurrence. This basically means we can't have any students with a history of suicidal behavior or speech, or they can't be mentally incompetent enough to do something too stupid like destroy a camera just because it was looking at them funny (as if cameras can pass judgment) or try bum rushing the master of ceremonies once they awaken in the classroom (sure we had a fair share of sycophants in this class, but no one with an Intelligence Quotient below 80—according to the Stanford-Binet standards- were to be permitted, well with one exception). In the meantime they were bathed, fed, clothed, and provided with some of the best house care money could buy.

Finally once the medical checkup had a green light, the young men and women were loaded onto a cargo plane, flown to a secluded island five miles off the coast of British Columbia, Canada (Our utmost trusted ally), and land on a quickly constructed runway just to see to it they arrive.

One reason for keeping them out of it for three days besides their assessments is also to help launch a media campaign advertising the premiere of the latest competition. Promotion is a key element in attracting paying customers after all (_we really broke the bank with this one, so the more viewers, the more hefty of a profit we make, besides even if we don't break even with pay-per-view sells; merchandising alone should more than make up for costs_). At least seventy-two hours was necessary to make sure the appropriate level of media saturation was achieved. Collars are applied, and then finally with all of this preparation said and done, all that needs to be done is to execute any remaining alternates and load the actual class up into the classroom.

Personal effects were included in their designated duffel bags, anything considered a deadly weapon (I.E. knives, guns, even large amounts of prescription medicine in the case of Walter Peterson) was confiscated and later sold at online auctions. _Objects that once belonged to the players can fetch for big bucks. After all BR junkies are willing to pay top dollar for the most authentic memorabilia they can get their greedy, likely covered in Cheetos dust, hands on_. Collars were then applied, then they would be ready for the show.

Once they finish watching the training video, and Julia plus her co-host explain everything the video didn't, the game will begin.


	3. Contestant Roster

**Roster of Students taken from ****_Coleridge_****_Bus Lines: Bus #23_**

**2009 Graduating Class of ****_Cold Rivers High School_****; Cold Rivers, Washington:**

**B1**: Donahue, Luke

**G1**: Hughes, Brianna

**B2**: Lombardi, Roger

**G2**: Macintosh, April

**B3**: Peterson, Walter

**G3**: Antonov, Natalya

**B4**: Chiang, Mickey

**G4**: Marsh, Lily

**B5**: Tran, Jerry

**G5**: Sato, Mitsumi

**B6**: Menendez, Carlos

**G6**: Navarro, Bonnie

**B7**: Golden, Alexander

**G7**: Kimble, Melissa

**B8**: Blue, Nathan

**G8**: Sweet-Belle, Shira

**B9**: Yunin, Michael

**G9**: Song, Trixie

**B10**: Ryan, Spencer

**G10**: Macintosh, Abigail

**B11**: Langston, David

**G11**: Sharpe, Flora

**B12**: Vrett, Toby

**G12**: Henriksen, Judith

**B13**: Heffley, Logan

**G13**: Pye, Diane

**B14**: Hellmuth, Joel

**G14**: Cruz, Laurel

**B15**: Paval, Vikram

**G15**: Forscythe, Rain

**B16**: Daniels, Isaac

**G16**: Manago, Octavia

**B17**: Dillinger, Brayden

**G17**: Beaumont, Avery

**B18**: Macintosh, Hank

**G18**: Ridley, Pamela

**B19**: Rojas, Anthony

**G19**: Puckett, Beryl

**B20**: Willard, Mathias

**G20**: Lee, Cheryl

**B21**: Tagashi, Leonard

**G21**: Zachary, Morgan

**B22**: Woodrow, Rodney

**G22**: Sanchez, Victoria

**B23**: Delaney, Nicholas

**G23**: Gates, Nicole

**B24**: Sullivan, Andre

**G24**: Belle, Violet

**B25**: Nadim, Mallick

**G25**: Archer, Lyra

**All Alternates Eliminated Due To Lack Of Necessity**


	4. Awakening

He was the first.

The boy didn't know much of anything other than his head felt like a watermelon at a Gallagher show. _Christ it felt ready to Split!_ He could also register that his senses _weren't _registering much of anything. A painfully obnoxious ring was ever present in his eardrums as he slowly came to.

He opened his eyes with intermediate difficulty; everything in his field of vision was blurred and diluted to the point of everything being unidentifiable mish-mashes of random colors and pigments. The specific thing was that most of the colors were dark. Like black, and olive green, and even gray and beige. He couldn't even feel his own face really, except the jawbone. His jaw felt like it had been twisted to the right and nearly broken. He rose up his fingers to gingerly inspect if it was really contorted or not. He felt moisture in the area (likely drool), but his jaw was indeed intact. The youth then experimented to see if he could move it properly. He made a chewing motion _eureka! I'm intact! But god this feels weird._

He felt very tired, he could vaguely tell things weren't quite right with…whatever this was, but sleep still felt like such a great idea.

Resisting the urge to lull back into dormancy, he got back his bearings and idly realized he was propped up in the sitting position, and that his left forearm was resting upon something hard. _Not wood, not metal, not plastic…. What is it?_

Moonlight seeped through the boarded-up windows like a bad omen. It told him however that he was indeed in a defunct, impromptu classroom. A scratched up chalkboard in the front, a large oak desk, the whole deal. Before he had woken up here, he distinctively remembered it being the middle of the afternoon. How long had actually passed?

_God, what the hell happened? Did I fall asleep on the bus? I feel like I would have remembered something like that. And why does my whole body feel incredibly sore? If I fell asleep on the bus, wouldn't I be ON the bus!?_

Suddenly years worth of memories flooded his mind trying to grasp what object has so elusively slipped his sense of identification. It was a DESK, you know. One of the first objects you likely think of when you hear "school", specifically "classroom"! _Was I asleep in a desk?! How'd I get here if I were originally on a bus? Is this some kind of fucked up joke, 'cause I ain't laughing! _His mind jumped to some of the more disturbing possibilities. _Is this a terrorist kidnapping? Did Mallick's people hijack the bus and are holding us for ransom, terrorists? Al Qaeda, Taliban?_

Luke checked out what was to his right and saw the wiry, motionless form of Joel slumped down in another desk face forward. Luke recalled him as an introverted boy who mostly got his name in the high school echelon's virtual ballot box through affiliation with Logan and Brianna, but otherwise was a fairly bland boy when it got down to it.

He apprehensively veered his neck to the right. The teen was greeted with a bizarre yet strangely assuring sight. It was Brianna Hughes (Girl#1 to the betting world). Out like a light from heavy sedation, a thin line of drool drawing a line down the corner of her open mouth.

The boy recalled what limited reconnaissance he had on the girl back from school, dating Logan, head editor of the school paper, shy, yet still political in her own way with a penchant for activism. Yep, that was Brianna.

She still seemed pretty despite her current unconscious state. Her light freckled, sanguine face being oddly attractive given the circumstances. Her orange ponytail was oddly mesmerizing, he stared her flowing hair down like Rapunzel but his eyes nearly bulged out of his skull once he got to her neck.

Up until this point he had felt mostly confusion (and grogginess), he felt even more perplexed (and even a little afraid) upon seeing what lay before him. She had a thin sliver of shiny metal around her neck, about three inches wide. The dimly lit room glinted off of the glossy surface. That did nothing to draw attention away from the very bright green LED lights that dotted the collar in even spaces, the lights all beat simultaneously in collusion with one another, as if they were corresponding to something. The collar looked tight, yet not stifling or constricting enough to asphyxiate a person.

Out of rampant curiosity and fear, Luke Donahue, now known as Boy #1, decided to look around behind him just to alleviate his anxiety. Just like Brianna, everyone else he could spot was out cold with thin rows of neon green LED lights all beeped at regular intervals, which must've meant they were all in sync! It was a sight that almost stopped his heart entirely! They all had those oppressive collars as well… and if all those other kids had them as well. It was safe to say that he also had one wrapped around his neck as well. And it seemed like there were five columns and five rows. Each column/row had ten desks (technically two pairs of desks scooted upright one another). And one pair of students occupied each one of the dual-seats (strangely enough, one boy and one girl for each one).

Getting back to the matter at hand he experimentally caressed his fingers around his lower neck. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, as he predicted… another collar;_ No shocker there I suppose. But still, where the fuck are we? I think I saw Mallick tucked all the way back in the corner, so I doubt it's a group of fanatical Muslims doing this, Or else he likely wouldn't be here. _

Craning his neck in an almost 180 degree angle behind him, he could clearly see the motionless forms of Roger Lombardi (Boy#2) and April Macintosh (Girl#2). Juxtaposing the two together struck a humorous chord in the boy. _Those two are such vastly different characters; it's almost funny in such a horrifying situation like this that they'd be seatmates in…in… just whatever the hell this is._

Leaning forward in his seat was a near Herculean effort, but he managed to do it (_thank god for good genetics and fencing_). Looking beyond Brianna, he could see Carlos Menendez (Boy#6) and Bonnie Navarro (Girl#6) faring just as well as everyone else in this god-forsaken room.

His fear was beginning to assuage just slightly as now curiosity was the most conspicuous emotion he could currently identify. _Please god why won't something happen, I've probably only been conscious for only about… what… two minutes and I already feel like it's been a year since I've woken up!_

As if on stage que, a pneumatic sliding sound could be heard in the furthest right-hand corner away from Luke.

Luke was tense with many different emotions. Fear, anticipation, anxiety, hope, curiosity, all being shaken- not -stirred like some kind of strange brain cocktail.

A small cart was being pushed in by a slender figure. It was inexplicably dark (whether due to the deplorable lighting or deliberately Luke would never know) in the front of the room so it was near impossible to tell who it was. The cart seemed to just be a square frame with two platforms above one another; the top platform had a large cube on it while the bottom one had a rectangular prism… likely they were both technological apparatuses of a similar purpose._ Maybe a heart monitor or a TV and a DVD or VHS player… _

The anonymous person stopped the cart to the right from where Carlos and Bonnie were positioned. She then grasped a cable running from the large box and ran it to the front of the room behind the cart. The sound of something being plugged in could be heard._ Is that a TV, or some kind of speaker. Please don't let it be a speaker; I don't think my ears can take any more sound rape. _Luke thought with the irritating ringing still present in his ears.

Suddenly the figure withdrew some cone shaped object with a handle from its side. It pressed a button on the side of the handle and an instinctive crackling sound could be heard as the device came to life. _Is that a megaphone?_

It raised the horn to its mouth. "GOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING CLASS!" A cheery high- pitched female voice chirped into the megaphone. It was blaring loud and jolted most everyone awake from his or her previously dormant state.

As if on command, all of the lights shut on, drowning out the grim room's moonlight with artificial light.

At that outburst, a trio of military soldiers calmly marched into the room, which was probably their signal to enter. They were clad in your typical camouflaged uniforms. However the most frightening thing about them (aside from their grimacing and severe looking faces) was the weapons wielded in their professional hands. Some kind of assault rifle judging how long the firearm was and how high-tech it seemed.

A black man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a long gash type scar riding in a downward curvature on his left eye pointed his assault weapon towards the ceiling and robotically fired off a three-round burst. The piercing loud gunshot now brought everyone into a terrified silence and directed their full attention at the party that stands in front of them. Bits and pieces of the dated ceiling and chips of paint rained down like snow, while the strong stench of gunpowder and high-pressure gas permeated throughout the room. Almost made Luke nauseous… some kids couldn't help it and vomited mightily on the side of their respective seats. _Perhaps they're the smartest; it's probably not best to hold things in like that._

Many screams were prevalent throughout the room. Many were on the verge of tears; others were absolutely confused, however. Least expectedly, a sliver of them simply remained silent and slowly nodded their heads forward; As if they knew what was going on and were preparing for what had to be done, one boy on the other hand's face was filled with nothing that was short of ecstatic glee. However despite all of the gestural persuasions and different body language, it was more or less quiet. Diane Pye (Girl#13) seemed to be one of the most affected. Her eyes were practically waterfalls of tears and her lip was quivering violently. Her legs were crossed over one another… and…and… has her hair always been straight like that? Instead of her normally frazzled pink hair that bears an uncanny resemblance to cotton candy; it was instead just a languid drooped down waterfall of pink fiber that covered half of her face. Luke honestly thought she looked hotter with that hairstyle, but considering how… normal and defeated it seemed on the formerly energetic party animal, it was especially disheartening.

The now-revealed figure whose identity remained unknown to Luke for what felt like forever was a female with curly yellowish-orange hair, had a sanguine face that was dashed with freckles (or is it dried blood?), and eyes that were as maniacal as they were blue… they were so blue that they could be perceived as silver given the right type of lighting. Given any different circumstances, Luke may have found her to be quite attractive, but considering the fathomless situation they were all in now, dreamy was not a word that came to mind. She was dressed in incongruous sparkly purple tank top, and _very _short camouflaged skirt_._ Anyone who lived in the good 'ol US of A who watched TV at least once a year or even somewhat nonchalantly paid attention to any sort of media output should instantly recognize this individual.

"WOOOOO BATTLE ROYALLLLLEEEE MOTHERFUCKERS!" Nick Delaney (Boy#23) shouted from the back of the room.

All eyes (that were capable anyhow) were on Nick, mostly angry ones, fearful ones, or simply ones of flat-out bewilderment. No surprise he would have a reaction like that. Any single overheard conversation from that boy will let you know right away that he is a BR ADDICT! Being that it's pretty much the only thing he ever talks about.

That's when it washed over the blonde-haired boy like a tidal wave. _Wowwwww…. OF. FUCKING. COURSE! I should have guessed it from the get go! The classroom, the collars, other kids, hell even the trip I should have guessed was a trap! We've been sentenced to a punishment worse than death!_

Diane now cried profusely and could not contain her bawling. She was not the only one to do this; many of the girls (and more than a few of the guys) followed a very similar course of action.

"Dude shut the fuck up!" A masculine, deep voice about two rows behind the #1 duo look shouted. (It was Walter Peterson a.k.a. Boy#3).

"Yeah! If you say that shit again I'll kick your fucking ass!" an equally boisterous yet feminine voice responded from a further distance (it was Rain Forscythe's voice). She certainly had the physical capabilities to do so, her body boasted a lean yet curved frame of pure muscle that had saw her through her fair share of fights before.

Completely ignoring Walter and Rain's command, Nick than added as his eyes filled with jubilance and admiration "And your-your-your…" He stammered.

And just as if the girl read his mind she cut him off "Yes, I am Julia Friedland… pleasure to meet a fan. " She then drummed her index finger against her lip and then pointed at the enthralled Battle-Royale nerd. "And normally while I wouldn't condone such an outburst like that, I do like fanfare and appreciate someone noticing who I am!" Julia a.k.a. the winner and former Girl#4 of the Eighth Annual Battle Royale remarked. She was smirking and had an abnormally happy face despite such happenstances. She looked like someone who wasn't condemning fifty (more or less) innocent teens to their inevitable demises.

"But I digress, you little monsters. First and foremost, congratulations graduating class of Cold Rivers High School!" She said cheerfully. "I should not have to mention how much of a privilege it is to be the selected class to be allowed to participate in such a grand event! And be able to prove your patriotism and loyalty to the values are founding fathers have kicked down to us from this great country!" She spoke proudly. You could see in the way she carried herself, her posture how much she truly believed in what she was spewing out. _Does the winner of the program automatically come out like this?_ _A blind, maniacal fanatic brainwashed and exploited as America's bottom bitch? _Luke wondered mentally.

No one dared to correct any logical fallacies that her statement may have presented for fear of getting a 3-bullet burst to the brain. Luke personally counted at least four out of ten Bill of Rights violations in the BR Act alone.

"Each and everyone one of you has been handpicked by the great ol US of A's wise and omnipotent government out of the millions of other denizens in your age group… You all probably don't realize just HOW lucky you truly are!"

Almost everyone in the room was visibly shaken by that extra comment. Julia chose to let her words sink in for full effect. She was about to continue when a voice of protest shot out from the crowd like a beacon of direction in the metaphorical darkness.

"Why us?" Class president and leader of the 'Pallet girls' Mitsumi Sato (Girl#5) interjected as she stood rather shakily from her desk. Despite Ms. Friedland's order's she still had to ask that burning sentence of inquiry, it had been gnawing at her ever since she had emerged from her previously dormant state. If they weren't in such a stressful scenario, many would have commended her for such an audacious action. She had a certain eloquence and innate speaking ability that suited her better more than anyone else. Defending student's rights in a country where they were getting more and more transparent with every passing day it seemed, whatever her goal was, surely she could accomplish it! She always did. Yes, if anyone could talk us out if this it's Mitsumi; she'll lead us to salvation by god!

"Out of every class out of every other school in this country, WHY US!?" She pleaded callously. "I mean certainly there are more problematic schools that could be better suited for such a harsh treatment. Why us?" She repeated more fervently.

"Well Mitsumi-San (while imitating a very derogatory Asian accent)" She giggled lightly at her own racist humor. The Japanese girl seemed quite offended. "While your school was chosen at absolute random out of every other public high school in this wonderful land, this specific arrangement of your colleagues, Ms. Sato, was selected just for you guys just being yourselves! You're all being recognized for your uniqueness… isn't that just FANTASTIC!" Julia chirped while smiling a grin that would have made the Cheshire cat green with envy.

She then procured her own pistol from a leather holster at her hip, she raised her arm and leveled it to the forehead of Mitsumi and motioned for her to sit down by lowering the barrel and raising it again several times. The class president, defeated, let out an anguished sigh and plopped down abysmally into her seat.

"Anything else?" Julia continued, "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

Instantly, the sharply dressed and Narcissistic Nathan Blue (Boy #8) stood up from his seat with a horror-struck mask of terror on his pretty face. "My parents said that the program only took dirty public schools!" Nathan shrieked. "I..I..I was enrolled to attend the University of Pennsylvania in the Ivy League. I was already enrolled! There must have been some kind of mistake! I don't belong with _them_! I demand to be sent home immediately!"

Nathan was a blueblood through and through, his father owning a nationally recognized seafood distribution company that sold to grocery chains, restaurants, and fishing ports all over the country. Just recently, Benedict Blue (Nathan's father) had received a major public contract and reached international sales, further skyrocketing his corporation's wealth. Of all people, Nathan was more confused than anything else. He wasn't supposed to be here, no, that's just not how it works, isn't it? Only the paupers got stuff this bad.

Nathan was breathing and darting around with deranged eyes like the animal that he thought all of his classmates were. Strikingly handsome with a shoulder-length mane of rich blonde hair, supercilious, and easily coming from one of the richest families in the state, he was always quick to share his opinion about anything he wanted, usually his views on anyone less fortunate then him. The fact that his family was ardently conservative, pro-republican, loyal to the government, and supported the program entirely now seemed liked fitting irony. There were rumors floating around that his family had only enrolled him into public school due to temporary financial troubles, but whatever his story was, one thing that was ubiquitously agreed on about him was that he was a hard guy to like (despite his captivatingly good looks). And an even harder guy to please.

"It's simple," Julia explained. "You were part of the class, you were transferred in the lottery, and now you're here. It's do or die kid. It doesn't matter if you're up to your eyeballs in cheddar, drowning on chardonnay; your mommy's cash isn't gonna do shit here."

"But I-

"Sit down".

With a signal from Julia, one of the soldiers spewed a rapid trifecta of lead at the ground near Nathan's feet, causing him to squeal in a cowardly manner, dance like a chicken and quickly scurry back into his seat. In the row behind Nathan and Shira (Girl #8), Trixie Song (Girl #9) started to snicker. Luke wondered if he was the only one that actually took notice of it. Nonetheless, it was terrifying.

"Any more questions?" She asked visibly annoyed. No one came forward with questions for a few seconds until a hand shot up from the back of the center column.

"Yes Vikram? State your question." She demanded quite imperiously.

The small Indian nerd known as Vikram (Boy#15) sheepishly stood from his seat next to Rain (Girl#15); his posture was very uneasy with the conspicuous slouch and measly demeanor. Tears were at the brim of his eyes as he seemed to have difficulty speaking for a few brief seconds before gathering the courage to talk. He spoke in between sobs "W-what happened to Mi-Mister Vaughn?" He almost whimpered his question, yet Julia still managed to hear it clear as day.

"That question will be answered in due time" she responded quite ambiguously. "But were behind scheduled protocol so I now need you all to sit your butts down." She checked the clock on her right to take note of the time (none of the fifty teenagers in the room were at all wary of the time measurer until now).

"Twelve minutes to midnight, we need to get a move on, so Vikram if you would be so kind as to sit down." The Indian youth almost mechanically did as he was told with no fanfare.

"Thanks… Anyhoo I was brought here as the master of ceremonies and to teach you all the BOOORING rules and regulations of this little competition and how to properly survive, and fight with…gusto! I mean I'm not complaining, in fact I jumped at the chance to be involved in the greatest game on earth! How could I resist?" She perkily explained. Nick could be seen nodding in agreement.

She wrinkled her nose and reached behind the television and pulled out a plastic, black, rectangle.

"Well I guess my real job doesn't start here since I am going to be using my past self to explain this to you in this here video. Now I need all of you darlings to be nice and quiet, we don't want any preliminary casualties now, _do we?_" Her voice taking on a much more dangerous tone as she clenched her teeth as if to prove how easily she could end any one of their pathetic lives in a millisecond and how good of an idea it is to comply.

No one dared to utter any unnatural sound or speak a word. Even the normally contumacious Walter was reticent.

She spoke again. "Good, now this game is going to began at 1200 hours SHARP! And we can't afford to burn moonlight, so in regards the United States Justice System's Entertainment division… Hey Ho, Let's GO!" She said in a singsong manner.

She seemed to hesitate and pause to think for a moment; until an expression of realization came over her freckled face. "Oh and by the way you may want to pay attention, you may recognize a few of the faces in here. Well, besides my own anyways." She said donning a much darker visage than previously.

Her expression suddenly turned into one of frustration and non-complacency. "I still don't know why I had to do this, they could have gotten any regular-bastard to do this." she muttered under her breath, breaking her exuberant guise.

Sighing out of irritation, she calmly placed the videotape in the slot in the VCR and turned the aged video-audio setup on, _just how procedure dictates_. She then stepped aside with her hands over one another and stood at attention as the visual apparatus came to life. With the occasional whimper or sniff pervading the silence, the video began to play indifferently…

* * *

**Transcript of Instructional Video "How to Win a Battle Royale" 2009! ©Reserved**

* * *

(Static and Snow)

(FBI Warning on plagiarism and unauthorized reproduction of videocassette)

(It begins as a pitch black darkness is covering whatever the camera is currently pointed at.)

**ANNOUNCER **(**Voiceover**): Now LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! I GIVE YOU THE ONE, THE ONLY, (pauses for a millisecond) WINNER OF THE 8TH ANNUAL BATTLE ROYALE… JULIA FRIEDLAND! (In a very loud showman's voice that one would use to announce to a very large crowd)

(Long and ardent applause can be heard clear as crystal)

(Suddenly a lone spotlight illuminates a single circle of light, yet the surrounding area was still dark as night)

(A figure walks out into the spotlight, revealing it to be none other than Julia Friedland, and she is holding a gardening instrument that vaguely resembles a small chainsaw)

**Julia F**.: Thank you-Thank you, your too kind, your too kind! (She took a bow to her left, and then bowed to her right at the fictional audience). Well I'm here to first and foremost, congratulate the 2009 graduating class of Cold Rivers High school watching this video, in advance, it will be a great pleasure in meeting all of you! (She extends her hand and mimes a handshake to an imaginary person). Now this ultra-super-swell program will weed out those pesky traitors who want to fight the system, and the real, true American patriots!

**Fake Audience**: YAYYYYYY! (Various other cheers)

**Julia F**.: Now to help me show you how this game works, I've brought in some special guests you just might know.

(All of the lights suddenly turn on all at once, revealing that she is on a theater stage in front of a large display of giant red curtains that are veiling something presumably. The curtains draw open, revealing four people, three students: Jeremy Snell, Scotti Lou, Gillian Davis and their former History teacher Ronald Vaughn. All four of them are standing on giant blocks. They also all have duct tape around there wrists and mouths, all have clearly taken a severe beating and seem considerably injured, all have collars similar to what the chosen class has been forced to wear, as well as tight nooses wrapped around their necks)

**Julia F**.: Now here are the rules for anyone who doesn't know them, and believe you me, you'd have to be _particularly_ dim not to know them by now, but I digress. Now listen up! I'm going to teach you all how to survive, fight, and most importantly… how to please our viewers and great leader!

**Audience**: YAYYYYYYY!

(Gillian was obviously trying to break free from her bonds)

**Julia F**: Now you're all currently on an abandoned island about five miles off of the coast of British Columbia in the Gulf of Alaska… the western-most region of Canada, Eh? *Giggle* It was once the location of the Weber's Seaside Resort as well as the neighboring yet isolated town community of Hillsborough. Even an old and drab military base. It is still fully facilitated, all of which you are allowed to fully utilize during your three-day stay on the island. Huh, that's something they never gave us during our show, those assholes… Well, it's completely abandoned and evacuated so you can scream and make as much noise as you want… no one will hear you! Except for the cameras and our eyes in the sky! The island is about ten kilometers long, and ten kilometers wide, so you'll have plenty of places to fight and hide!

**Audience**: HOORAY!

**Julia F**: The premise of this game is unbelievably simple, you will each be assigned a duffel bag with a random weapon, let out into the wild and with your weapons, kill and make blood spill!

**Audience**: Yay!

**Audience**: One of you will even get mega-lucky and find yourself with a bonus second weapon in your pack! Isn't that awesome!

**Audience**: Yay!

**Julia F**: Now, i think this goes without saying, but nevertheless, you must all literally eliminate the competition until only one stands! The last one alive wins and receives massive fame and wealth and emerges as the pride of the nation, isn't that exciting! You're the tippety-top dog if you're victorious… if not, well, you're dead.

**Audience**: YEAH!

**Julia F**: Yeah it's a rather simple, yet infinitely entertaining affair. But anyways, about your collars; we took a hint of advice from our great neighbors to the east and adopted these brand spanking new collars, JUST FOR YOU! They're 100 percent shockproof, 100 percent waterproof, and absolutely permanent! They monitor your vital signs and make as wary of your location and movements at any given time. They also have a microphone so we can monitor your conversations and transmit them to the audience, after all great dialogue makes for great television! Now if you go into a Danger Zone or behave naughtily, we can identify you, send radio signals that activate a trigger in your neckwear and BOOM! Your head and your body will go their separate ways. And the signals _will_ find you no matter where you go. Also if you try to yank it off, it explodes to, so please don't do that. OK?

(She walks over to her four hostages, all of whom were trying to escape their adhesive restraints; Scotti was trying especially hard to remove her noose. Jeremy was crying with big doe eyes and you could hear his constant sniffling)

**Julia F**: Now about the Danger Zones. This year they will not be implemented unless given a reason to. So if you all play nice and don't displease our audience, we won't use them and the entire island will be your sandbox to play in! If you break property or try to rebel however, the zone the offender is currently located in will immediately go danger in regards with the rules. There is also a time limit on this game of ours, three days. If more than one person is alive after 72 hours EXACTLY, all the collars will be detonated and no one will win.

**Audience**: BOOOOOO!

**Julia F**: I know! That'll make me super-sad too! (Mimes wiping away tears, but then looks up cheerfully again) Also if more than one person survives until Day Three, at 9pm all of the zones will go danger except for a grid just outside the bunker you all are currently watching this recording in. One last thing regarding the danger zones, attacks on this bunker will not work. Twenty-five minutes after the last person leaves, the bunker will go danger, so don't do that, alright?

**Audience**: OKAY!

(At this point Jeremy is almost able to take off his wrist tape)

**Julia F**: Now there are many ways to go about playing this game, you could be a dick and not do anything…

(Julia suddenly lashes out at Jeremy with a concealed knife, running the blade across his throat. Slitting it in a gratuitous spray of arterial blood, Julia remains smiling despite Jeremy's still-spurting blood drenching her face. She then proceeds to kick the box from underneath Jeremy's feet; he wildly gasps for air in vain as he tries fighting the noose digging into his ruined neck. His body jerks spasmodically and his face turns pale from the lack of both blood and oxygen. Finally after about two minutes his fighting stops, after thirty more seconds, he goes limp. He twitches twice, than once more, then never again. Two minutes after that, his blood stops running altogether.)

**Julia F**: But that would just be SOOOOOO BORING!

**Audience**: BOO!

(The other three left standing try desperately to escape. Mr. Vaughn is visibly the most distraught out of all of them)

**Julia F**: Instead you should play the game and have tons of FUN! Show everyone how much YOU ROCK!

**Audience**: YAY!

**Julia F: **There are SO MANY WAYS to do it. You could be simple yet stylish.

(She calmly steps up to Scotti who is practically crying rivers, she pulls out a large handgun and shoots the tomboy point-blank in the chest, exploding her heart and killing her instantly. Blood spurts out of her chest in droves as her body flies up against the noose and falls off the box, it now dangles lifelessly next to Jeremy)

(Gillian and Ronald Vaughn can both be heard screaming and crying in spite of the tape over their mouths)

**Julia F**: After all death by gunshot is an easy and effective way to score your first kills, Hell that's how I murdered my boyfriend last year. But if you REALLY wanna wow the audience (pulls out a small chainsaw). You need to be creative, and brutal with your victims!

(She rev's up the aged motor-saw as the machine whirls to life and the iconic slasher-film sounds emit from the tool. Ronald and Gillian's eyes shoot open and are filled with pure terror and they are now whimpering weakly.)

**Julia F**: Like this! (She thrusts the saw into Gillian's side. And slowly moves it across in a vertical line, Blood and gore spray every which way as the school criminal and biker chick screams of unbelievable pain and horror are drowned out by the din of the mechanized saw as it literally bisects her from the torso down, the blood paints Julia's face a shade of bright red as well as splashing quite a bit of it on Mr. Vaughn. A very large puddle of blood is forming beneath where Gillian's feet would've been if they weren't separated from the rest of her body; segments of her intestines unravel from her ruined belly and flop down into the crimson life juice as well. Her eyes roll up in the back of her head as she painfully crosses the threshold from life-to-death.)

**Julia F**: (turns to face the camera) That'll really get the crowd to love you!

**Audience**: YAY!

**Julia F**: And finally there we'll be those of you that will try to fight the game. I just want to show you all what that will look like.

(She drops the blood-soaked instrument of terror and pulls out what appears to be a remote controlled garage-door opener. And points it at the History teacher's neck, she presses the large red button on it and the LED's turn as red as the button that activated them. A loud and menacing beeping noise becomes more and more audible. Reacting on instinct, Ronald wildly thrashes about and accidentally falls off his box, he chokes on the rope as the beeping gets louder and more and more fast paced. Finally a deafening explosion rocks the room as the 63-year-old man's head explodes in a torrent of meat and bone. His decapitated cadaver falls free from the oppressive rope that once held him)

**Julia F**: Didn't that look awesome?

**Audience**: YEAH!

**Julia F**: Well that's enough of this mess; the cleaning staff is going to have a hell of a time dealing with this. (She walks toward the camera away from the four bloodied corpses, the curtains close behind her in their scarlet red glory). Now each of you will receive a random duffel bag containing all of the basic necessities required for survival against the elements. (A cart slowly rolls into view with an innocuous assortment of mandated survival pack items) Enough food and water for three days, a flashlight, a map of the island, a watch, a list of all of your fellow contestants as well as a pen, and any personal items you may have had on you while you all…. Dozed off. And perhaps most importantly… your randomly assigned weapon! And like the many advantages and disadvantages in this life, it will have been assigned at pure random!

**Audience: **YAY!

**Julia F**: Not just guns or knives either. It truly is random, you could wind up with a semi-auto combat shotgun or an SMG, or you could receive a spoon or a computer mouse… it's what's in the cards kiddos!

**Audience**: YAY!

**Julia F**: If you don't like the weapon you're assigned with, well then tough shit; 'course you can always kill someone else and take their weapon, if you want it, just TAKE IT! That or you can find one of the many weapons hidden throughout the island… we made sure to have no shortage of weapons for you guys to work your magic!

**Audience**: Yeah!

(Julia picks up her "weapon", a butterfly knife in between a saran-wrapped bread roll and a long black flashlight. She lifts it from the roller-table and holds it in her right hand)

**Julia F**: Mine's super lucky! (She holds the blade of the knife like how you would a claw hammer, pinches it between her thumb and her index finger, and expertly launches it in an arc from her hand, it sails through the air until it sinks blade first into a watermelon perched upon a nearby stool)

**Audience**: *_Wild Cheering*_

**Julia F**: Ahhh, you guys are just the greatest! I love you all! But… the real talent is you kiddies watching this! In about *looks at watch* five minutes or less, you will all be leaving the classroom in randomly assigned order… we will randomly select a contestant via bingo cage and we will pick up from there… See! It's all up to the gods to decide who gets the early advantage… early contestants get the first kills, eh?

**Audience**: Yeah!

**Julia F: **We will also announce every six hours which of your peers have passed on and made television gold in the process, it'll help you know whom else you still have to kill! As well as any other special proceedings and events that could be real game-changers! You will all also have two minutes each to leave the classroom and make your entrance into the game! The last one standing gets life, liberty, a hearty cash prize and will rise to international stardom… not bad for half a week's worth a work if I do say so myself!

**Audience**: YEAH!

**Julia F**: Well I believe I've covered everything important about this game, so with all of that being said… I can't wait for you all to show your killing potential! I've had a great time meeting all of you, but I'll have an even _better_ time watching you all out in the game!

**Audience**: HOORAY!

**Julia F**: Remember kids, it's not just about gutting, putting, and rutting… it's also about being you! (More cheerfully) Now go out there and make us proud you little rascals! (Pause) Good night and good fight!

(Julia stands at attention and salutes to the camera as a graphic of the American flag waving in the background appears, and as comic relief… and almost as levity, the Team America: World Police™ [©Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Distributing by Paramount Pictures. Scott Rudin Productions 2004] Theme Song begins to play.)

(Julia fist pumps to the song backed by humorously and almost obnoxiously heavy rock music)

**Julia F: **AMERICA! (Raises her fist to the sky)

**Audience**: FUCK YEAH!

(Loud cheering could be heard as the song continues to play as an American flag superimposes itself onto the screen until eventually the camera fades out and cuts to black).


	5. Hour 0: 50 Contestants Remaining

With most of the 50 occupants in clear shock attempting to fathom and digest what they had just seen, Mitsumi Sato's (Girl#5) brilliant mind was already traveling at about a mile a minute. _Ok, no need to panic… no need to panic, you've only been chosen for the GAME, not just any game, but __**the **__game! The one that caused the family to immigrate to the states in hopes of escape! Yeah Twi…. Nooooo need to panic…_

Weighing her options she decided anything was better than letting her own haunting thoughts cloud her sanity. She surveyed the room for any classmates worthy of being noted (friend or foe). The girl chanced a look around the room, her eyes sweeping for any familiar faces within the ominously unfamiliar bunker. She kept a stern front as she analyzed her fellow colleagues (rather her fellow contestants).

Her current seatmate was Jerry Tran (Boy#5), the stage-technician who was more or less the perfect candidate for the school's jester if they adopted a cultural society from the medieval times. He seemed to be more or less breaking down, his blubbering and mindless sobbing was loud and piercing and almost made Mitsumi wish she was still under the tranq's that put her out several days ago. _I guess any reaction is appropriate under these circumstances… but still… why does HE have to be my seatmate? Why couldn't it have been Spike or Dash, or AJ or any of my other friends? Couldn't this guy be on the other side of the room?_

She felt livid enough to want to tell him to shut up… but a wave of empathy washed over her as he looked up with tear-marred eyes that reminded her of a young child who had just been told Santa Clause was just a fictional image campaign purported by the Coca Cola company.

_My anger is directed with this game, not this guy. I mean this is Jerry we're talking about… remember how in fourth grade he had that oversized orthodontic headgear and could shoot rubber bands with his tongue? _An odd sense of comfort assuaged Mitsumi's anxiety for the briefest of moments, enough to give her the confidence to try to make the boy feel better in any way.

She tried to prepare the most sincere and empathetic face she could muster.

"Hey Jerry." She whispered.

That rattled the boy; he slowly faced her way with fearful doe eyes. Now the compassion was really flowing into the school class president…

"Y-y-y-yes!" he stammered with a very arduous stutter.

The gaze in her eyes softened dramatically. "Everything will be all right…you'll see" She said trying to sound as genuine and hopeful as possible to the young Asian.

Somewhat hoping for some gratitude from the youth, he instead turned his head back to his original stance and resumed sniffling like he had a terrible cold. She wasn't all that surprised she received that kind of reaction. _Well at least you tried…_

While she wanted to resume her analysis, she still couldn't help but feel bound by her conflicted thoughts, almost literally tethered to her conscience and only being freed by comforting this boy. _He kind of reminds me of Spike when we were younger. _

Sighing, the girl then spoke again, this time with slightly more determination. "Jerry, Look… a lot of death is going to happen over the next three days, perhaps entirely all kids that we've grown up with as young adults. That I cannot deny. However… I'm going to make sure I save at least a couple of lives... none of us deserve to be here. I know if we get the right people together we can do this! I swear!" It may have been blind optimism; it may have been she was trying to assure herself more than the teen beside her, it may have even been flat-out pure naiveté, yet somehow, somewhere deep inside her, she could feel a positive premonition that her vow would come to life.

"We can escape from this island, just like Shuya Nanahara and Noriko Nakagawa in Japan! Let's meet up once we're out of here and get to work… I promise I'll keep you safe!" _What are you crazy! You hardly know this guy and your basically promising salvation that isn't even there! You're no better than phony Peter Popoff! Besides that happened a decade ago, back before they even had the PlayStation for fucks sake! But Twi what else can you do? Tell him he is going to suffer a terrible death along with forty-eight other hapless bastards… probably including you? Jesus Christ this situation is beyond egregious… Come on..._

Suddenly thinking of the two Japanese Martyrs she suddenly felt all of the reasons for coming to America influencing her feelings and igniting a fire in her… _I NEED this! Don't let it die, keep it going! If Nanahara-kun and Nakagawa-san can do it, you can to… that's the spirit…. Dammit Twi, always were the humanitarian of all your friends… asides from Flora. _

Jerry's bawling and crying alleviated more than slightly, he looked up with a combination of hopeful and nervous eyes. "Y-you mean it?" he responded with a more sure and wholesome voice.

Hesitating for a brief moment she weighed the outcomes of her response. _You could tell the truth and crush his hopes and spirits, and the depression may prove to be a bigger killer out there than any physical weapon. Or you could lie and keep him happy in his final moments… hell…Fuck it! Gonna actually have to round up some worthy folks though…_

"…Yeah… I do…" She said unaffected as she now had a plan (albeit wire-framed) and had full intention to set it off. She smiled warmly at her seatmate as his happy aura seemed to amplify a thousand times over.

"I knew it Mitsumi… I knew you'd get us all out of this! Out of anyone they could have picked… no one is better suited for this than you… why it must be destiny!" He reasoned with a hyperactivity that rivaled the ex-Diane Pyes' who sat just 2 columns to the right of the duo.

She blushed lightly at his compliments. She now felt a lot better, knowing she wasn't crazy, that someone else was insane enough to make her sane again…_Maybe we'll stick it to these fuckers after all._

"Heh thanks… but in the meantime, help me scout around for some good ally's! They're imperative to our future operation in many ways!" the Japanese girl explained.

He nodded as a loyal cadet would to a commanding officer and tried his best to sneak a survey around, this prompted Mitsumi to do the same.

Most of the contestants were still in immense shock and many kids (mostly girls) were crying. Though it didn't show on her face, she definitely felt a high-level of fear. If she were a lesser person, she'd probably be joining in on the chorus of sobs. But that wasn't befitting a great leader, or the trenchant charisma that allowed her to become the school president. _You can't show fear, fear equals weakness, and weakness equals vulnerability, that equals easy pickings for a homicidal scavenger, Must be punctual and methodical about this._

David (Boy #11) was screaming angrily while thrashing around like a netted shark, Carlos (Boy #6) swore furiously and rapidly in Spanish, Trixie (Girl #9) eyed the room around her with a dark smile on her face, her friend Flora (Girl #11) seemed to have just exhausted her supply of tears and was now whimpering softly, and Mathias (Boy #20) looked around with a grimace, paranoia severely marring his face. Simply put, the entire room seemingly had erupted into a frenzyish helter-skelter.

Looking to the desks beside hers; in the row beside her she saw Spencer Ryan (Boy#10) and Abigail Macintosh (Girl#10). Spencer seemed quite shaken up and depressed, yet the track star didn't draw tears. _Maybe the shock hasn't kicked in yet_. Abigail's reaction was actually quite unexpected… she seemed completely jaded, apathetic, modestly creepy is what it was. Being the energetic beatnik and admittedly immature person she was. Many would have expected her to have an emotional breakdown, or at the very least shed a tear or two. In an ironic sense, she was, she was breaking down by letting her emotions cease into the deepest recesses of her mind. Defense mechanism perhaps?

She must have sensed the girl observing her, judging her, eying her up and down like prime rib in a butcher shop. She craned her head and her normally bright and exuberant amber eyes were now just lifeless orbs of gold that somehow expressed a single statement… "I am not dying for you." _Should I talk to them? Nah don't know Spencer well enough, and Abby really doesn't seem in a negotiating mood right now._

The dark haired girl just looked away and decided to look in a different angle._ Okay so you know Rain and Diane are already here, that long blonde ponytail and brown cowboy hat combo further ahead are dead giveaways for April, with luck, Spike, Violet, and Flora are also here… wow. Did I just think it was __**lucky **__for them to be here…? I take that back… I hope they're as far away from here as humanly possible._

As selfish as it was, even Mitsumi had to admit that it would be much more expedient to her cause if they were here. Of course there are other allies besides just her closest friends. _Get the other geniuses like… Mick, Mitch, Micah…that Russian kid… Vikram is here, so is Mickey_. _Get the people you know will never play and are as adamantly opposed to this abhorred game as you are. Like Roger, Hank, Brayden, Yeah… that's a decent lineup… Let's see how this all plays out._

Yet in spite of all the potential allies, she was also aware of every villain for every hero in this game. _Customary for every BR to have its share of psychos and killers, of course. _It would be no surprise that the leader of Cold Rivers local teenage delinquent gang would likely partition in a deadly tournament like this. Walter two rows ahead, was dead silent and had an intimidating grimace about him. Trixie could be spotted just a few feet from the #5 pair's seats. She turned around and shot Mitsumi a menacing wink that nearly made her shudder. Nick (Boy#23) was well known as an avid BR fan boy… so of course he'd play, hell he most likely signed up for this contest. His face was still full of glee and he could barely contain himself (that was apparent to those who could see him). _ And those are just the obvious psychopaths. Who knows what evil may lurk under the more unassuming teens. Abigail may be an indication of that sentence. I wonde-_

Her thoughts were interrupted as two of the soldiers from earlier (That very few people noticed or cared had left the room to do who knows what), returned. They each had two very large wheel carts that were brought into the room. All eyes were on them… they were both designed like fenced cages and were both filled to the top with olive-green duffel bags that were to serve as their survival packs.

Once they were both in plain view for everyone to see, one of the soldiers who wheeled in the first cage then sprinted out of the room for god knows what reason.

"Now." Julia spoke again in what felt like an eternity. All attention was diverted to her yet again. "I also have a guest speaker that many of you will recognize to sort of… co-host this competition with me… In about 3…2….1…."

On cue, with a piercing whir of static raucous, the archaic loudspeakers at each of the room's corners crackled to life and throttled everyone away from what trance they may have fallen into.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING BATTLE ROYALE!"

_God damn it, not another Julia… Wait a minute…. That voice…_

The voice was unmistakable; anyone and everyone who lived within the Cold Rivers City limits knew that voice on intuition alone. It was none other than Dante "Discord" Donovan. The disc jockey for the most prominent local rock station 103.7 "The Band!" If anyone needed a laugh, all you had to do was send a call his way and with his dirty comic humor and easygoing, playful voice will fill out your request in a jiffy and make your life feel all that much easier. He truly had a passion for being a DJ. Nearly every graduating senior that had lost their virginity, lost it to a song request by Dante, and the fact that he was now going to preside over their deaths like a mass-funeral preacher made the situation all the more surreal.

"Hey, howdy, hello, hi, greetings, and whatever other suitable euphemism for 'sup suits ya'll." The DJ said with a remarkably buoyant sense of cheer. "This is Discord Donavan, your eyes in the sky. Let me tell you a story of something that happened to me the other day. I was at my house trying to get a good buzz on when the man comes a knockin' on my door and they ask for something other than my taxes. They offer me a wheelbarrow full of money for me to do what i already do best, now for a sporting event bigger than the Superbowl! I'm being completely earnest here by the way, literally a WHEELBARROW full of money… I honestly didn't figure people even did that; but now let me tell ya, that's a lot of money! I mean not nearly enough that one of you lucky bastards are going to receive at the end of this thing. But that's beside the point. So of course I jump aboard and now I'm the narrator of the most dangerous game! Speaking of which, in a few minutes this thing will begin in full swing, and just to give you a guys a hint at the audience you'll be catering to… the pay-per views are at colossal figures! They are bigger and better than ever! Even more huge than the very first one! Can you believe it?! Congratulations!"

Dull silence occasionally broken by a sob or a sniffle reigned over the room. The canned effect of audience clapping could be heard from the aged speakers.

"Okay that's more like it, now before things get chaotic and this game begins in earnest, any questions to a man that actually knows what's going on?" Dante asked in a strangely considerate manner.

For a moment, everything was pure lull and muteness. No one really had anything to say, they were primed with explosives strapped to their necks, and were going to be killing one another in a few minutes, only one of them… maybe none if they were that unlucky, would be making it out if this. It's a rather straight-forward concept, right?

What nobody expected was a female voice stricken with a heavy southern drawl to penetrate the silence.

"When does this game start?" Abigail Macintosh asked simply. Short and stout with a head full of cropped crimson-red hair. To most of the senior class of Cold Rivers high a question from Abigail was usually no surprise being she was always a curious individual filled with wanderlust. However this kind of question coming from a beathicky nick (a phrase Diane once coined) was very alarming and even downright frightening.

The Macintosh triplets had moved to Cold Rivers from Missouri (specifically the Ozark regions) to live with their grandparents to receive a higher degree of education some years ago. They understandably brought with them southern twangs and a few provincial mannerisms and ideologies. While nothing was disconcerting about her at first glance, a short pretty girl who had a big mouth and was a "redneck", no biggie. Abby was definitely the most distinct looking between her two other siblings. Instead of tall and powerful, she was short and adorable. Instead of having a freckly complexion and sandy blonde hair, she had hair as red as a fire engine and her face was as smooth as a baby's bottom, and rather than emerald or jade green eyes, hers was a shade of bright amber. She almost looked nothing like her brother and sister… a stark contrast if anything; but the southern mannerisms were something that was amongst all of them.

What almost no one knew though was that she was a devout follower of the Battle Royale series. While most lower "white trash" families tended to watch police raids or WWE on their TV's in their trailer homes surrounded by empty beer bottles and wallowing in their own filth. She instead turned to the Battle Royale; she had converted several years ago and now watched anything and everything Battle Royale related. Illegal cable hookups allowed her to view games in Japan and several European nations, immediately she was hooked, not quite as badly as Mr. Delaney, but still enough to become a fairly hardcore fan. It was a true death-sport, no choreography, no scripts, actors, nor special effects. Nothing artificial, it was pure and natural, unadulterated violence and blood, tons and tons of blood at its finest. She wasn't truly a violent woman, but a BR fan, dangerously genre savvy and with vast knowledge and an affinity to the competition; in an actual Battle Royale, was hardly a good thing.

"…Well… the game begins when you leave. You will be released one at a time in two-minute intervals. Just before you leave through this door here your pack will be thrown to you… better hope you're a good catch."

At that moment the soldier that left earlier strolled through the door carrying a fairly large spherical gyroscopic bingo cage that contained what appeared to be several dozen white Ping-Pong balls with black inscriptions on them.

"Now that all the major proceedings have been discussed, it's time to pick who goes first. If we start with say boy#19 it will then go to girl#19, then boy#20 and so on and so forth, do I make myself clear?" he asked

Some kids just nodded autonomously while others didn't even dignify a response. But almost everyone still got the message nevertheless

He sets it down upon the wooden oak desk besides the TV/VCR set up.

"M'lady" he notified curtly.

"Oh why thank you Horatio!" Julia spoke now that her co-host disc jockey "friend" had finished introducing himself. _About damn time, that guy talks too much…_

She turned the handle on the simple machine and after a few seconds the grinding and sound of plastic clattering against plastic and metal came to a halt as a single ball was singled out and produced out of the slot.

Julia picked it up humbly and read its engraftment. A sense of genuine anxiety weighed down upon all of the students as curiosity dominated all other senses… _Who's going to be the first one to leave?_

"Well the first one up to bat is none other than…" All the students' eyes widened and hyper focused upon the flamboyantly dressed former BR contestant before them. Their fates were now about to be sealed.

"Girl#10, ABIGAIL MACINTOSH!"

All eyes were now drawn on her in a microsecond. She was the chosen one to go first!

Her seatmate Spencer in particular looked especially unnerved, like part of his mind just cracked.

"FUCKING COCK!" He yelled out in a cocktail of fear, anger, and dread.

Mitsumi tried to guess why he of all people is taking this so hard when it hit her like a speeding train. _Wait if Abby's Girl#10 and she's first, and he's Boy#10…. Oh… he's the last one to leave…ouch._

Abigail on the other hand didn't appear that phased, the girl could undoubtedly say she didn't expect her name to be called… but hell, that's a blessing if she ever knew one.

Abigail tentatively stood up, feeling several joints and ligaments crack as they adjusted to a non-sitting position. She rolled her shoulders experimentally; getting some satisfying cracks that felt damn good; it was the most she felt at ease since she woke up here. _Much better_.

"Ms. Macintosh, your two minutes starts now." Julia reminded.

Abigail calmly rose from her seat; she had on a phlegmatic front that was really a guise for pure fear and unsettling other feelings. She could actually feel fifty-something pairs of eyeballs all burrowing into her back as she strolled to the cart cages, it was unsettling and made her want to leave ASAP. As she approached the front of the classroom, she heard a voice.

"Run and don't look back! Just a hint of advice kid." One of the soldiers whispered in her ear. She nodded like she understood what he was saying, but in actuality, she didn't… she wasn't going to be the hunted, that much she could confirm… she wasn't sure if she would play the game; but she was Macintosh blood consarnit, no way would she be prey, she was too strong and noble for that. _Might just be a matter of what weapon I get… look out world… here I come! _With that thought, she dashed for the door; barely catching the duffel bag that was roughly tossed at her, it nearly knocked her off her equilibrium, but she kept running and didn't stop until she was just inside the frame of the door connected to the hallway that lead into the killing field.

She took one last look at her fellow classmates. This was it, the last time any of them would be seated like an actual class, and she treasured that moment. This would be the last time she'd see all of them together. She smiled at them and for the first time in the time she had been awake, she sincerely felt like crying. _This class wasn't perfect by a long shot but we still had our moments of_ _brilliance damn it_. She quickly stopped her nostalgia; she could see the various looks of hope, fear, dismay, contempt… and downright apathy; all on her. The hardest ones to swallow were the looks of fear and bereave that were being flashed at her by her sister April and her brother Hank.

She quickly veered her head away (_Don't let them see you cry_), and stepped into the hallway, set for an unknown future.

* * *

She was in a corridor maybe thirty yards long (she never was good at them _fancy mathematics_). She observed the bland linoleum floor that was reminiscent of the ground of the hallways back at her school._ Even though I'm not as scared as many other contestants…. I still want to go home…hell I'd even be willing to go to college if it got me out of this._ There were translucent windows on both sides of the chamber, on her right were many sections of long upright rectangles shaded pitch white, though obscured shadows and outlines of kids pierced the whiteness with amorphous blobs of bluish-black. Each rectangle was divided into four congruent quadrants by a wooden four-way frame. On her left were similarly designed structures. Aside for some dim moonlight, it was mostly distorted by blobs of perpetually moving shadows (reality of it was the wind blowing branches of foliage back and forth) that seemed resolute on breaking into the dimly lit chamber. It gave her the sensation that she was walking the Green Mile or something poetic like that. Almost gave her a serene feeling as how peaceful this one moment of existence was, especially when compared to the hell and depraved humanity that was sure to follow.

She could also tell there was a harsh white light ahead of her at the very end of the corridor, it seemed to divide the hallway in half diagonally, one half was light and safe, promised security, while the half she was occupying reminded her of the darkness and confusion of her first moments of consciousness. _Go to the light, the light is good; the light is what will save you. _

She didn't know what brought about that thought. But it was good advice… she sprinted down the hallway, it seemingly getting bigger and bigger with each step she took. The once small rectangular beacon of white was now an ever-encompassing square that got larger and larger until it was the only thing her eyes could register._ The exit, almost there…_

Reaching the bright light at the end of the tunnel, her journey, almost over. She was literally blinded by the light as the Mannfred Mann cover began to play in her head; but once she felt comfortable enough to open her young eyes again… she could see it all. She was in an overgrown field that was flat, for the most part. The edge of the hundred-yard perimeter was a really dense jungle choked by walls of vines, leaves and other unidentifiable foliage. Towering trees loomed over her aggressively as if they wanted to take a swing at her, or fall down and cut her time in the game abruptly short. It all walled the pasture in. It was somewhat meadow-like. Patches of overgrown weeds and grass were scattered about the clearing itself. Bright floodlights illuminated the immediate area outside of the bunker. But beyond that was advanced darkness that held the unknown deep in its ever-present grasp. Confused. She decided to hide in some underbrush. _At least until it becomes a danger zone. Maybe I can come up with a game plan… _She threw her bag into the brush and then dived into the shrubs and waited… hoping for the best.

She was on her back, her head in contact with the potentially bug-infested earth floor, she didn't care though. What she did care about though was everything about this game. _Truth be told I think I'd easily be willing to play if it weren't for one, no scratch that, two, no… god damnit many things! My sister and brother, Shira, all of their and my friends, and what would Granny Smith think of me?! She'd whip my ass senseless…_

Siding with her better judgment instead of her near puritanical morals she set out for herself, she zipped open her bag.

_Let's see here, map, compass, flashlight, Dasani bottled water, MRE's and….holy smokes…Now **t**__**his **__is something I can work with._

With renewed confidence upon seeing her weapon (truth be told she had never seen or touched anything like it before), a smile slowly crept upon her face… enthused she said dangerously "Let's get this on the road!"

* * *

Two minutes had passed since Abigail Macintosh (Girl#10) had been released from the classroom when Julia spoke up again.

"Next up… is Boy #11 David Langston." Julia announced.

Horatio averted his gaze away from the children before him. He was just another statistic… another boy who would share the same coffin as forty-eight other essential nobodies in the grand scheme of things. "Horatio", a.k.a. PFC Horatio Miller, thought to himself. _Do what you're told and send the children on their merry way, right into the meat grinder._

He sighed lackadaisically. Everything was going as it should have when a voice rudely interrupted his train of thought… it was deep and throaty and one of those tones where you can already tell the guy's an ass before even getting to know him.

"Hey… why are you so sad? You get the pleasure of releasing the guy who's going to win this thing!" The voice proclaimed. Since it came from such close proximity, and because it was so overly masculine it could have only belonged to one person, the voice's owner was as arrogant and as fueled by machismo as the vocals itself. That was David Langston (Boy#11). He looked aggressively at Horatio with that incongruously small and mean looking head of his that was proportionally inaccurate to the rest of his overly muscular build. (_God this guy is freakin steroids man or something_). David was about 260 pounds of pure muscle, the steroids really contributed to that. But he regularly hit the gyms like a man possessed, well whenever he wasn't at football practice or knocking around some stupid lower-classmen for their lunch money. And now he was right up in Horatio's grill.

Horatio only looked at him incredulously… physically he was definitely a force to be reckoned with, but you could be goddamn Ahnuld or Chuck Fucking Norris and still easily die out there, it'd take a world- class blowhard or an unbelievably stupid person to think that they're going to win just because they're big in stature. _How'd this guy make it through orientation? Or even get through senior year for that matter?_

"You'll see, I got this bitch by the balls!" He added confidently. Horatio did his best to straighten up his posture before addressing the bulky youth.

"Well to answer your question I'm not happy with this program, I'm essentially sending people to their deaths, and on another note… you are so goddamn stupid to think for even a minute it's going to be so easy."

"Pffft, bitch please, you don't know me." He rebutted.

"Yeah well, I know for sure you won-"

"No you don't! I'm going to dominate this game, dominance is what makes the world go round, brings people to your will, dominance makes money, does business, and gets pussy. What does being a loser do? Make things easier for the dominator!"

Just as Horatio was going to give him a serious piece of his mind, Julia interjected.

"Horatio, this quarrel between you and Boy #11 is quite entertaining, but it's very infantile and we're behind schedule; we don't want TWO early eliminations if you catch my drift." Julia insinuated threateningly.

Horatio only sighed in defeat as he held back his words. _This kid's pompousness almost got you, can't let it happen again… he'll get his in due time… _the Private simply stepped backwards to allow David the right of way…

"Ha Ha, you got told by a girl, suck on deez nuts." He snidely insulted.

Before anyone could provide a response, he caught his bag and ran at top speed out the door, and down the hallway into the game.

* * *

The boy believed every word he said to that inane soldier, striving for dominance, that it was humiliating for a MAN like that to be ordered around by a WOMAN (_no matter how much of a psycho bitch she is)_. Sure he didn't word it as eloquently as he could've, but hey, he was never known for his speech. Besides, he was sure the point came across just the same. Most importantly tough, he truly believed he had the game in the palm of his powerful hands. Power, the one thing that he just never could accrue.

Power, the thing that women had but didn't deserve or just used wrong.

Power…

He had learned at a young age that the strong survive, not the smart as so many naïve people like to tell themselves after a day of getting the crap kicked out of them BY the strong. If you had power over another person, you could get them to do whatever you wanted, the only way to dominate someone by being smart is to hope that they owe you something and are actually dumb enough to abide by honor code. Or blackmail… _but giving people black eyes is so much easier and more a reflex than taking the time and patience to blackmail somebody._

He had seen these people, these scumfucks who were every bit as dumb, ugly, and caustic as the people you wouldn't want to know. He had seen how they exerted power around the town. Both on a large scale to get oodles of dough, and on a smaller one to manipulate dumb cunts to get on both knees with their overused puckered ass up in the air giving BJ's for their latest fix. All with the standard shit-eating grins on their faces.

David knew why they had it, how they could afford to be so cocky. It's because they knew they could get away with it, they had the power, power over their fellow human beings. They were winning, they had what people wanted, and when you had something people wanted and you were the only conduit to many a desperate peoples buzz, you had the most apposite power play to benefit you and you only.

David had been part of the seedier side of the Cold Rivers suburbia. His mom being in cohorts with the likes of Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, and many other gangs as loathsome, sordid, and caustic as the people normal adults told their children to avoid at all cost. Most importantly however, she had connections with their Dr. Feelgood's.

Time and time again he had seen drug dealers, ex-cons and gang bangers treat his mother like a heavily abused piece of meat. He was no Einstein, but even a dim-bulb like him could tell they only valued her as a sex toy, not even as a fellow human being. Quite frankly, he began to emulate that way of thinking towards women hence forth. The way they held power and coercion, extortion over their clients, females especially. Power was something he could really get off on (truth be told he was actually studying up on how to be a cop, really just so a normally powerless thug like him would be granted near-unlimited power by the state over his fellow citizens. But at least he could feign wanting to do the right thing._ God bless the USA for loving the dick of authority up their asses_._ State-sanctioned motherfucker_!).

It didn't matter what was set forth in front of him, no matter the gauntlet. He didn't need to be a Stephen Hawking, nor a "Toscanini" (as he once heard that prudish cunt Octavia yammer on about), all he needed was power. He had to be strong. He had to be merciless. And above all, he had to be dominant. And it had worked out well. Nobody with half a brain would honest to god piss off a Herculean boy with a muscular prowess of over two hundred pounds with an incredibly short fuse.

That said however, he just may've been the only person in the Battle Royale who had completely disregarded the gravity of the situation he was in. Some might've said he didn't have the intellect to even fathom what heap of trouble he was in, but David knew his confidence came naturally because he had been preparing for this his entire life. Not that he had been training for the Battle Royale specifically, but he knew what it took to win, and he had what it took to win. Strength and iron will. And being only the second one released only further supported his righteous beliefs.

Still, in spite of that, the boy had the humility about him to confess that brainpower was not strength. Far from it, so as a result, the more strategic elements of the game eluded him. He cared not for the details, like where people would be hiding... or the deleterious notion of not drawing attention to one's self... or even the possibility that somebody else would make a try on his life. To him, there was a nifty little strategy that formed in his mind that not only would guarantee him victory, and not only was it easy to follow, but it was also completely idiot-proof. Just roam around the island, kill everyone in sight and eventually he would have to emerge as the winner. No miscommunications. Spilling some blood to preserve his own? He had no problem with that.

For David Langston, a.k.a. Boy #11, losing was simply not an option.

He took note of his surroundings; it was tranquil unlike the rampage he was going to go on once he found some proper victims. Trees all over the place, a large grid of flatlands, some brush and patches of weeds… nothing out of the ordinary.

Deciding he would get nowhere by just observing the plant life, David decided it may be best just to go out into the woods, find shelter and properly wait and nap. The sleep would allow him a mental clarity unlike any of the others could muster and would make them easier targets for the hunt. Yes, the hunt…

Just as he approached the tree line, he heard several noises. Unnatural noises. First the rustling of some brush, then soft, delicate footsteps... and then some kind of clicking sound.

He rapidly turned around and realized a small figure was facing him; he couldn't see particularly who, he could only tell due to the curvatures on its sides and protrusions jutting from its upper chest was that it was a girl (_sweet, free kill and… maybe even free pussy if this all goes well_). She was just out of the field of the floodlights so her front was almost completely eclipsed by darkness, the light in the background only illuminated a few select nuances about this mysterious woman in front of him. One, she had blood-red hair that was neatly cropped and kept together (as well as finely ornamented) by an oversized pink bow that fairly topped her scalp. Two, she was dressed rather conservatively in navy blue denim overalls with a yellow dress shirt underneath those (_rather drab if you ask me, this must be that_ _inbred hick Abigail…or April… what was her name again?_). Three… She appeared to be holding something at her side, she was gripping something like a handheld tool, it looked awfully pneumatic and complicated considering how oddly it aesthetically presented itself, she let it casually dangle by her waist… and four, and perhaps the most perplexing thing was her eyes. They were a vibrant shade of amber which may be an indication at peace and sensitivity, however… her dilated pupils made her look like she had just murdered someone, bathed in his or her blood, and was now thinking of ways to turn that into a comedy routine… those eyes seemed to be staring into his very soul. _Creepy._ He also couldn't see the devilish smile that was just barely hidden by the mantle of darkness (but perhaps that was for the best).

"The Fu-"

Suddenly Abigail Macintosh (Girl#10) in one deft motion rose up her left arm and revealed the identity of the mystery tool… it was a gun! And it was pointed at him! She didn't give David the chance to try anything as she immediately pressed the trigger with all her might.

To make things more dramatic, it was a Mac-10 Ingram Machine Pistol.

It was like a typewriter from hell. Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat.

A volley of bullets immediately began burrowing their way through his chest and torso. They were at extremely high-velocity, so much so that they began tearing flesh off the bone, as well as much of the bone itself. They perforated almost every major organ from the waist up. The sheer force of each round was so powerful that it forced his body up against the closest tree, splattering blood and gore all against it, painting the tree a grisly red. When the bullets finally stopped, David was far beyond the point of no return.

Miraculously, all of the bullets missed his heart (if not by just a few centimeters) and subcutaneous critical veins and arteries, which unfortunately denied him the privilege of a merciful death.

He was in unimaginable pain, pain that he knew not existed, it was consuming him… it felt like thousands of rats were in a homicidal rage, like his organs, skin, and bones were all made out of cheese, and none of the rats had eaten in days. And it was dinner time (he wasn't even articulate enough to come up with a statement eloquent or forceful enough to describe it). His body certainly looked like the aftermath of such an event. All he could manage to do was stare dumbly down at his horribly mutilated body that had once been the source of all of his pride and overinflated ego. It all resembled the type of mush that could be found on the inside of sausage casings. Half of his ribcage was blasted away while dozens of holes the size of a dollar coin dotted the rest of him like Charlie Brown's Halloween costume.

He fell on his front, which elicited what was meant to be a high-pitched scream, but only was a wet miserable gurgle due to the blood he was slowly drowning on. He fell to his knees, then on his front side. When he impacted the earth, the pain only amplified by what felt like 100 times more agony, instead of just rats eating away, it felt like the rats were now made of fire, and dispensed sulfuric acid every time they took a bite.

Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that this piece of white trash would do him in_… _That thought alone made him want to cry.

Just as he thought it couldn't get any worse… it got better. In an instant his head was exploded by another stream of 9mm bullets, Blood and brain matter spewed every which way as his skull was completely annihilated by the rapid-fire lead-injection drilling its way into his cranium. Grayish-pink brain goop and bone fragments bounced everywhere like concrete being penetrated by a jackhammer. His body shook about like he was being treated with electroshock therapy without any restraints. When she finally let off the trigger, what remained of David went completely still (aside from the copious blood flowing mind you).

Despite her complete lack of firearms training or experience, the girl had practically scored a perfect kill with almost every bullet (all 26 of them) hitting their mark.

For David Langston, the game ended as soon as it started…

Abigail was the first to kill in the program; she certainly would not be the last.


	6. Hour 0, Part 2: 49 Contestants Remaining

Abigail had just killed someone… in cold blood and in a very abrasive and violent manner. It almost made her nauseous, seeing his skull get blown up like that. She had never seen such bloody violence like this up close and personal, sure she had seen recorded recounts of it. I mean she was a BR junkie after all, and she just saw one of her best friends get murdered on videotape ten minutes earlier. But… nothing could have prepared her for this.

_Man. This must be how surreal feels! Wait, why are you feeling bad? This asshole tormented you! You, your friends, and everyone around him! He was probably going to play the game; just like you are. You're different though, he was a scourge upon the earth that you did the world a privilege by getting rid of. I bet he wasn't even playing for survival, he was just gonna kill for the sake of killing...Yeah._

She could picture it in her head; she'd be a femme fatale, a black widow, a badass girl. She always dressed up as the Bond girl and Catwoman, or as another heroine for Halloween, so why not become one in real life! _No not a heroine… a villainess!_

It all really depended on whomever the video editors decided to paint her as, _hopefully not a redshirt_.

She didn't necessarily want to take the evil path into becoming a psychopath bent on the other forty-eight remaining contestants destruction for her own survival, especially since some of her closest friends, her crush, and even her own blood were all a part of this… But the fact of the matter was, she feared death more than anything else. Pain, she was a tough girl. Blood, it's gross, but it won't hurt ya unless you lose too much of it. The dark? Please, that's for babies. But death, that's the ultimate fear. The not so great beyond; once that happens, nothing awaits you but advanced black and silence. And she would do anything and everything in her power to keep that from happening, if all forty-eight others must perish… then so be it!

Making quick work of David's pack, she slung it over her shoulder and made a beeline towards where she left her own.

Once she was certain she was safely out of view in the shrubs, the zipper on the deceased Boy#11's pack came down, she ravaged through its contents to see if she could find his weapon. _Let's see food, map, flashlight... a pack of Marlboro cigarettes,_ _and a lighter. Everything that's in my pack but where's the weapon?! The video said everyone got SOMETHING! Oh wait a minute… wow… the big wigs sure have a great sense of humor._

Countless times before, she had watched other contestants condemned to this exact fate receive humorously abysmal "weapons", and countless times she had laughed at their pre-recorded expense, but now… she wasn't fucking laughing._ Guess something like that is never funny once it happens to you…_

As it turns out, some asshat thought it would have been an incredibly comical joke to give a person a _ladle _as a "weapon". _Great, just fucking great… honestly even if I hadn't shot this guy to death, he probably wouldn't have lasted long out there. I mean what are you to do with a ladle? Serve someone soup until their stomach explodes? Hit someone with it so they might be so irritated they may just go away? Wow. What the fuck._

Out of frustration, she threw the kitchen utensil as far away from herself as she could, it flew in a wide arc before disappearing into the unforgiving forest behind her.

_Don't lose your shit just yet girl… just shoot the next person who walks out that door, hopefully they'll have something better and you'll be riding high and on top! Even if the ladle is useless, the food and water will help me live longer. I can definitely see some uses for the lighter though, that's pretty sweet. _

She methodically raided the pack of the previously mentioned items and put them into her own, while leaving what remained in the brush_. _She had no intention of bringing the rest of it with her; it would only slow her down.

She checked her current magazine, _only six bullets left, gotta reload after this, and make this count. Stay Frosty Abby._

And almost on cue, a set of footsteps could be heard within her vicinity, they were set at a very quick pace and were growing louder and louder by the second. It's been two minutes already? _Ok, you can do this, you can do this._

Bringing the iron sights of the machine gun up to her right eye, she closed her left one to give more attention and focus to her other one; she steadied her breathing and prepared to down the next person to cross her path. It was almost too easy.

* * *

_Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat_

The rapid-fire mechanized gunshots rang throughout the air, plaguing the once quiet and more or less peaceful classroom with thunder. The gunshots were produced almost immediately after David's departure. _Oh, my… people are already doing this… it hasn't even been five minutes and already most likely, someone has passed on._ Between the two potential victims (the only two contestants to be released so far), she was kind of praying that Abigail was the one to be alive. Flora Sharpe, a.k.a. Girl #11, abhorred violence and normally would never wish harm upon someone, she really hoped no one got hurt at all. But if somebody did die, she definitely would've hoped Abigail was not the one to do so. In all honesty, David was kind of mean to her and her friends, and women as a whole. The room was already a symphony of sobs, crying, and other sounds to express remorse that most likely already one of them has crossed the great divide from life to death. If you listened hard enough, you could hear liquid flowing, and then dripping. _Oh… are people urinating?_

She was right; some of the students could no longer control themselves and let their bladders go, (Joel Hellmuth a.k.a. Boy#14 was so terrified he had an explosive bowel evacuation, His seatmate Laurel Cruz a.k.a. Girl#14 became quite nauseous and nearly upchucked the past several days' worth of governmental care to such a repulsive stench) mainly boys; most of the girls still had enough self-respect to not piss themselves in front of their classmates. Although now even more kids decided to regurgitate all they had consumed in the past twenty-four hours. The stench of vomit mixing with urine and the sheer level of terror Flora was feeling made her nauseous as well, yet she managed to keep her stomach contents down.

"Wow that was fast! It's all right my little soon to be angels, almost all of you are bound to die anyway and Mr. Langston was just one step ahead of you. And you never know, maybe he's still alive out there. Maybe he received a gun as a weapon and tried to scare you off so you'd come out distracted and teary-eyed and become easy pickings for him. You never really know what happened unless you see for yourselves. All I know is that people will die and some of you will be the ones responsible for those deaths." She laughed maniacally as if she was a cartoon villain of some sort.

"Well another two minutes are up, Girl #11 Flora Sharpe, You're up!" Julia Friedland called out once again.

She was now set free like the two previous teens. At first she didn't budge. She was glued to her seat, _Come on body, we may not have the best relationship, but please don't fail me now! Pretty please?_

Alas, she was in a fugue, like her legs were made out of stone. Her mind wanted to get up and leave the classroom… after all; she kind of liked her head. Yet her body simply refused to move.

Horatio noticed her predicament and catatonic state. He was sympathetic enough to give her some assistance as an act of mercy.

He knelt beside her and made direct eye contact. _Okay, her eyes seem to be coming into focus, that's good. _"Flora, your profile says you're a very sweet girl, and you're extremely pretty, even if you don't think so… I really don't want to see a flower like you get squashed long before their time… if you want…" He blushed lightly. He was only about a year or two older than the kids in this room, so naturally he'd still find a beautiful girl like Flora attractive; and it would still be completely normal, Sure she was being condemned to a destiny possibly worse than hell itself, but he'd still like to leave a good impression on her and show SOME humanity. "… I can walk you out of here…" He paused for a brief second. He added "Would you like that?" He asked gently, as if speaking to a young child who was lost in a supermarket.

She still looked quite shaken, yet slowly nodded her head. He smiled warmly back at her in response. "Okay then, let's go."

He hooked his right arm around her, being extra conscientious not to grope her breasts with slight difficulty (_Man those are the biggest tits I've ever seen, are they even real? According to her profile she hasn't undergone any sort of cosmetic surgery, but Jesus H. Christ._), regardless he was able to delicately get her up out of her seat. She was light and was complying so it made the whole deal easy for the young private.

The entire room was as silent as an abandoned pantheon as all eyes were drawn to the fatherly soldier assisting Ms. Sharpe.

He was a fair looking young man, with an ovular face, a ginger aura about him and had light blue eyes, there may have been pity in those eyes, but not enough to try to circumvent the tragedy that was happening before him. He still radiated empathy despite being clad in a military uniform, armed with a rifle and being part of the system.

They stopped at the left cage, letting go of Flora for just a moment to talk to his superior.

"I've got this sir; let me get the bag please." He requested. His commanding officer (the black one from earlier) nodded in understanding, standing aside with tough, yet forgiving eyes.

Horatio dug with both of his arms into the cage until he found what he was looking for… a drab olive-green duffel bag with the name "Flora S." sketched in large letters in black sharpie.

He switched his stance in holding it and switched holding it with his left arm instead of both. He resumed his previous engagement with the rose-pink haired girl before him; he wrapped his other arm around her and walked her towards the mechanical sliding exit door. He handed her the designated survival pack in his hands. He then pulled her in close.

"Good luck Flora… I believe in you, I truly do… Now run! Make it as far as you can away from everyone, kill only when you have to and be anti-social, you may just be the one to survive this." Horatio cautioned to the girl he seemingly fell in love with after only knowing her for a minute.

She nodded in acceptance and upon digesting what has already happened, and trying to prepare herself for what is sure to follow. Just as she turned to sprint, she felt a tapping on her shoulder and kept herself in place. She turned to face him. He leaned in close and whispered to her:

"By the way, your assigned weapon is a bulletproof vest. Considering the rapid-fire artillery that Ms. Macintosh was assigned, and that she is clearly applying out there… I advise you put it on before exiting the bunker."

"Come on Miller," a rough male voice shouted, "Quit wasting her time, she only has forty-five seconds until the next person has to leave. Get your ass in gear!"

"Okay sir!" he responded in kind to his superior officer, Sgt. Allan. He returned talking to the slightly younger woman "Remember what I said and hopefully you'll be fine, remember, your Kevlar vest will probably save your life… put it on, now GO!" He said with a bit more force. And she did just that… she was already halfway down the hallway in a full sprint when she could faintly hear his charming voice one last time. "Good luck Flora!"

She would've gone all the way into the blinding white and unbeknownst to her, into the clutches of Abigail's sentry post if it hadn't been for his soothing caution, talk about governmental interference actually _saving _lives versus taking them.

That reminded her of what had to be done to ensure her survival, assuming Abigail truly did go evil. She took off the yellow cashmere sweater she was donning, underneath that was a butter-colored t-shirt with a picture of three pink butterflies flying in the center (just above her breasts), the giant lumps from her chest wrinkled and twisted the image so it was difficult to tell exactly what it was. But nevertheless, they were butterflies. She set her bag down and zipped it open faster than the fly on Hank's pants in her libidinous fantasies (_Hank… he's here too… maybe I can meet up with him and we can do…something…anything…) _Shaking her head clear of any thoughts that didn't have to do with her immediate actions, she found the vest atop her other provisions, just as Horatio promised.

Without wasting any time, she quickly put it on as she would a life jacket. Once it was secured and zipped shut, She put back on her sweater, and closed her pack. The vest felt rather constrictive on her breasts, but it was only a trivial inconvenience, besides, the safety benefits far outweighed the minor discomfort. She was as ready as she possibly could be given the circumstances. _Come on Flora… you can do this… find your friends once they're all released and do… something… Twilight's incredibly smart, so is Spike… maybe getting them together and we can come up with a strategy!_

She had exited the harsh glow of the spotlights and was now in the open meadow.

* * *

Out of all forty-nine remaining contestants in the Battle Royale, Flora Sharpe, a.k.a. Girl #11 probably belonged there the least, at least in terms of morality. She was a hippy, not in the literal sense of dressing and living like a hippy, but in terms of her eating habits, stances on conflicts, and socially liberal viewpoints. She held on to the counter-culture of the 1960's; adopting the principles of equality, love, and peace. Her socio-political beliefs including: anti-war, pro-choice, anti-guns, and anti-death penalty. Overall though, her ideological proclivities towards peace, that would certain incline towards the hippy subculture. But her parents on the other hand were legitimate flower children tried and true, having met during freedom summer and officially consummating their love during, appropriately enough, the summer of love four years later. Despite the free love, they waited until they were ready for children, and had Flora not in the Generation X of the Sixties and Seventies, but instead in the lovely so-called Generation Y of the Nineties.

Regardless, she still firmly believed in the values of the generation past. It was a good time, nothing like the constant noise, fretting and trifling commercialism that was the 1990's and new millennium. All the causes of the We generation, Haight-Ashbury and Greenwich, they meant something. It was amazing, it was almost like communism without the whole communism part.

Things were good for Flora, taking parts in civil protests against a regime she didn't believe in, civil disobedience, Two Days in October. She loved doing things, things that were reminiscent of the sit-ins the alumni of University of Wisconsin did all those years ago to protest Dow chemical and their insidious napalm. Recruitment on campus for a cause they didn't believe in, that's not good. She wished she were born in that era more than anything else...

Well until… _It happened._

Her parents were just as magnanimous and benevolent as her, they didn't have a single hostile bone in either of their bodies, there practical inability to implement violence or wish it upon another was venerable to some, and very dumb to others. For Flora, it was the former. Yet somehow, sometime, they wound up murdered. They were found while Flora was away at a slumber party, in their beds with their throats slashed.

Police and those who were close to Flora were glad that she hadn't been present at the time of their deaths, Not only was her life spared, but so was her having to come face to face with the cadavers of her beloved parents (_If she lived to see it that was_). But in all honesty, she actually regretted NOT being there. Maybe if she had, she might have been able identify the assassin, or even better. To stop him! _But no, of course not, fate had to interfere… fate had to kill them? For what? For being so good? So good that they didn't belong on Earth? I'm so angry I can just scream!_ Of course instead of a mighty roar like she had anticipated, all that came out was a weak whimper. _Pathetic, as always Flora…_

The estimated time of death, according to pathologists was sometime between 11 P.M. and 6:30 A.M. whoever the killer was basically pulled the perfect crime. There was no substantial evidence, physical or circumstantial that could point to any potential suspect. Neither had any known enemies, No DNA belonging to any other party was found, nor nothing valuable appeared to be missing (except for the photograph taken at the Sharpe's honeymoon in Myrtle Beach. A photo that Mr. Sharpe cherished deeply and kept on his nightstand). So robbery was ruled out, Suicide was first considered as a possible cause of death, but was immediately ruled out after taking into consideration several variables, the position their bodies were in post-mortem, they had no history of suicidal speech or behavior, and had no detrimental crisis in their lives, that and the murder weapon was never recovered. The only other thing they could think of was random violence. Yet that also was put into doubt, how could a random person who didn't know them pull off such an organized and sly murder?

It was too cunning and up close for it to have been just gang violence. And no sign of forced entry (Although their bedroom window was left open, that was the only conceivable portal of entry), It had to have been a personal case, someone with a real vendetta for one or both of them; yet with nowhere to turn, the case went cold. And what became of Flora one may ask?

* * *

She was sent to live with her closest geographical relative. This was her uncle Randall, An ex-firefighter; who had since gone into early retirement and was in steady decline. An alcoholic who had a hair-triggered temper and abused Flora verbally and physically (sometimes even sexually) at almost every opportunity he got. Flora being such a peaceful and demure person never fought back, so as a result… it just made Randall even angrier and maltreats her even worse… He always wanted her to put up a fight for some arcane reason. She couldn't call CPS due to his constant threats and monitor over her phone calls. She was basically helpless to stop him.

_At least until… I-_

Her thoughts were interrupted by several explosions to her left, then pain exploding on multiple pinpoints on her chest. She let out a small "EEP" and sank to the earth helplessly.

She was utterly confused, what was that noise? Why does my body ache so badly? What's that smell? A metallic stench assaulted her nostrils with barbaric ferocity. A familiar stench… _Blood. Someone really is dead! But who? David, or Abby? What are you saying, Abigail was given a machine gun, remember?_

She kept her eyes closed, she was about to get up until she realized that someone was approaching her, why?

Knowledge immediately flooded her previously flustered mind, she had just been shot with what she could only assume was some kind of automatic gun. And now the gunman is going to loot her.

The footsteps got louder and louder, Flora's heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst out of her chest and take her down as only the second casualty of the game. Alas that fate did not befall her. _Just play dead Flora, just play dead… you might survive this, just be a possum, you like possums, so do a good imitation of one; Like with Randall._

The killer stopped just by her body. She swore she could hear it apologizing, but it may have just been her imagination. He or she (likely she) perched down by her body and opened up her pack; she could hear the sound of Velcro being undone and the zipping noise of the fly coming down. _Please whoever you are, just please take what you need and go away and come back another day…if you don't mind, that is._

"What the hell?! Where's the weapon?" A feminine voice with a southern drawl that was exclusive to the state of Missouri asked aloud.

Flora almost couldn't believe it, Abigail, the perky girl that always got into playful shenanigans with Shira and Scotti, the girl who accidentally gave away the day's supply of apples to random people she was trying to make them purchase at the farmer's market last June. She was playing. She really has gone evil! _And if a once sweet and innocent girl like her has been corrupted, I can't even imagine what will happen with the less-friendly teens._

She truly wanted to cry, to try and find an outlet to relieve how crestfallen she felt. How everything has pretty much shattered. _I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, She's only doing what she's been taught by our government, if you want to live in desperate situations… can't be afraid to get your hands dirty…_

All of a sudden she felt some light pressure being applied on her midsection. Then she felt something else, it was very gentle and timid, yet she could feel something sweeping above her sweater. It was so mild in temperament that it was as if she was brushing a puppy dog, or lightly patting a baby on the head.

"Why ain't there no blood?" Abigail remarked, thoroughly confused.

_Oh no! Oh dear god no! She knows!_

She could then feel the gentle presence of her hands vanish as she then heard an emphatic clicking noise (Abigail jamming a magazine into her machine-pistol).

Flora could sense the gun being pointed at her head; feel her personal space being violated by the mechanical spewer of molted death. Abigail's pneumatic death-dealer was loaded and ready to do its job, spew a hail of lead to level any motherfuckers in the way. Flora here was just the unfortunate victim that was the next stepping-stone on her path to victory, she truly had nothing against her and actually was quite fond of her, but yet again… it's life or death.

_Okay, so you're going to just straight-up murder Flora here in cold-blood? God this is so fucked! _She didn't have the same jaded disposition as when she killed David, that guy was a prick in every sense of the word, he deserved to die. Flora on the other hand was single-handedly the kindest and most gentle soul ever created, she's an angel… and soon she's going to become one.

Abby genuinely felt queasy with the unpleasant task at hand. _No, no mercy Abby, You've already spent too much time contemplating this… if you want to live… you HAVE TO KILL!_ _Yeah, come on… You can do this… you can do this, just a flick of the finger and it's all over… make sure she doesn't suffer. Make it quick and clean! I owe that much to her._

She was hesitating with the trigger immensely, For all intents and purposes she should have been able to finish this girl off easily, she was planning to win after all… yet here she was. Freezing up! _Just get her. Get her fast, you know how and you know where, just do it girl, just do it and get it done. Come on, you can do it... you're not doing it. Just do it, it'll be easy, do it quick..._

Much as the girl didn't want to admit it, her heart was pounding out of her chest! She wanted to be good at the game; she always knew she would be. She'd seen it every time, watched it and loved every moment. _Remember in the Louisiana game when Jacob blew up Hayden with a grenade, remember in the New York game when Mario yanked a rib out of Sandra's corpse and stabbed Wilson to death with it? Remember in the Maine game when Becky sank her teeth into Shawn's neck and bled him to death like Dracula? Those were awesome! Now you have to follow suit and kill this girl! _With more bravado and faith in her, Abigail now had just the boost to apply more force on the trigger and get the grisly job done.

"I've got nothing against you," the girl said with a wavering voice. "Just wanted you to know that." She added solemnly.

For some reason that nobody, not even Flora could explain; She was blessed (in her mind, she was "cursed" because of its adverse affects on people, and she would never want such a thing) with a very special ability. It was an enigmatic and dark one that she had only used twice in her lifetime, and both times it was either in self-defense, or in defense of another, both times against assailants who weld weapons capable of killing or maiming another… both instruments of violence, and now that one of them was being held at her head, she felt that this was an appropriate time to utilize it…

"No, I'm sorry." the demure girl murmured. It was so quiet Abigail almost didn't notice it, almost… she did. And instead of turning her head into a pile of steaming contents resembling a dish at an Italian restaurant like she had done to that jock just a few mere moments ago, she was too astonished by Flora's sudden response and how audacious (or stupid) she was to officially blow her façade.

Then in a move Abby never anticipated, Flora's eyes shot wide open and flashed her signature "Stare".

It was incredibly lucky that it had worked… more specifically, that they made eye contact. From there, the farmer's daughter was completely at _her _mercy.

Abigail had seen the effect of the stare first-hand when Flora had used it to come to her defense when she, Shira and Scotti had wandered away from a sleepover from Flora's cottage. They wandered into the surrounding forest in pursuit of several of her chickens from the coop they had destroyed during their "Shenanigans" and had encountered an outlaw. He brandished a switchblade and likely would have killed (or maybe even raped considering how devilish his grin was and how sultrily he spoke) the trio if it hadn't been for Flora.

She used the stare on him… and he didn't stand a chance… Abigail couldn't have known what he saw or how he felt. To her, it just looked like Flora was simply glaring at him, might make you feel bad similar to if you committed an act that your parents didn't approve of and were reprimanding you with their gazes, you feel bad, apologize and promise to not do it again (even if you have your fingers crossed behind your back); Nothing too heart-wrenching or traumatizing.

But to him… it must have been fear beyond that he had ever known. He stumbled to his knees and collapsed in a sniveling, crying, guise of pure terror and guilt, Looking as though he were prostrating himself before her. In an instant, he was reduced from an antagonizing monster that seemed to feel no remorse for any action he may do or how badly he could harm another person, to a bawling baby in the face of the Police. Whatever happened to him, it was quite clear he wouldn't be getting back up again anytime soon. Whatever he saw had to have both mentally scarred him and will likely haunt him for weeks to come. Flora then effortlessly procured his switchblade like she had done it a million times prior, and instead of calling the police, simply admonished him and said he "made a bad decision". She let him off the hook and he fled like a speeding bullet. Nobody has heard from him since. Flora was honored in the local newspaper and considered a hero by almost everyone. This was all about a year ago. When they were all juniors, and since then Abigail had forgotten her stare even existed.

But now that it had reared its head again. All of the memories of those few days which she had thought to be long forgotten had forced themselves into her psyche, as well as fear and guilt beyond that had she ever felt before.

The second their eyes met, Abigail felt a wave of pure and unmitigated fear wash over her. She couldn't explain why, but when she met those blue, seemingly harmless eyes... she saw death. Death, staring right back at her, right then and there. In an instant she was reduced to the pitiful state that that nameless criminal all of those months ago was in. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she lay sprawled out in front of the timid female. She couldn't tear her eyes away; they were permanently glued to hers. That had to be the worst thing about it, the world around her melted away as those piercing blue eyes penetrated her very soul like a white-hot knife.

She fidgeted violently, and was on the verge of upchucking all of her stomach contents. She looked as though a ghost had a firm control over her soul, her very existence… she almost wanted to die it felt so...violating.

She tried to convey and plead for mercy, but was too stunned both internally and externally to make any sort of bodily output other than squeals and blubbering murmurs. She just wanted it to end… in any way it could, death couldn't possibly worse than this, hell couldn't be worse… _This __**IS**__ hell!_

On Flora's end, she felt empathetic and very guilty about doing this to someone who was (at least at some point) as childlike and effervescent as Abby; even if she had turned psycho and had attempted to kill her. But now she actually felt an emotion that was relatively foreign to her, anger.

She couldn't figure out what she was more upset at. First there was herself for doing such a heinous act against another person and expecting the good in people when she probably shouldn't have. There was obviously Abigail for attacking her, but what her anger was most directed at was the government! What kind of fucked up world do you live in that promotes a program that forces good people like Abby to turn into wannabe murderers? Its just all sorts of wrong… it made Flora feel indignant and sick to her stomach.

She'd had enough of this and just wanted to be alone. She took note of the machine gun that the southern girl had carelessly let clatter out of her grasp when she went into fetal position, Flora didn't break the gaze; Yet she did notice it just in the very corner of her peripheral vision. Her teal eyes continued to stare harshly into Abigail's bright (albeit terrified) amber ones, yet she slowly bent herself into a suitable position to reach for the gun.

She did manage to pick it up, yet held it by the grip by the very tip of her fingers. She dealt with it in a manner that would imply that it was very filthy and contaminated with some kind of strenuous bacteria, and Flora didn't want to become infected. Nevertheless, she had successfully obtained the weapon while simultaneously keeping Abby subdued. _I'm in control now, no need to oppress her like this anymore; I've got the gun; I can keep her at bay, she's had enough. _

Her piercing eyes lost their ferocity and Abigail was finally set free from the quagmire of grief and dread that had consumed her entire being._  
_

She didn't immediately get up though, or even react. She still continued to lay sprawled out, even though the gaze had disappeared; Abby was having a difficult time coping with the aftershock. A similar experience would be like coming out of 200 degree heat into the Arctic Ocean, she was confused, groggy and disoriented, and above all, immobilized! Though she could vaguely recognize she didn't have her rapid-fire firepowe_r._

After a few moments, slowly but surely, the rest of the world was starting to come into focus as she regained the use of sensory input. The blades of grass that was lightly pricking at her face, the coppery smell of blood, the unpleasant glow of the ultraviolet lights being shined down upon her from the floodlights above. A pair of shoes a few feet in front of her. Not Reeboks or Adidas like she had imagined… Vans. Her fear was dramatically depleting and being replaced with curiosity, Her eyes mounted the shoes and climbed mount Vans. _Let's see… yoga pants, Yellow wool sweater… Flora…_

What did she expect, for her former hostage-taker to have magically teleported away? _Okay well I guess not that, but why would she stick around? She has the gun and is no longer in danger… why doesn't she just go already? Unless she plans on finishing me off, gulp._

She held onto the gun with one of her hands, her sleeve extended so it could cover the hand (_It's still a dirty, dirty thing. But I can't give it back to her… no matter how distraught she seems)_ that wielded the Mac-10; she kept it behind her back so Abby couldn't make a grab for it. She knelt down beside her and spoke in a very soft and motherly voice.

The country girl on the other hand just meagerly held up her arms in vain as some kind of attempt at defense for the onslaught of lead that was sure to come, all the while apologizing profusely. She squinted her eyes shut, expecting the worst.

The animal caretaker now felt acutely guilty for what she had just done to the smaller girl.

"Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you." She said comfortably. Abby stopped shivering and lowered her arms; she also had enough courage to open her eyes. She softly looked at the speaker.

"Now I know you were afraid Abigail, You were afraid and that's why you attacked me. I'm not sure if it was fear of death, fear of me attacking you, or leftover remnants of bad juju from your quarrel with David… I'm sorry to have instigated this whole mess, but… It had to be done."

The country girl sniffled a few times unconsciously and could feel a clenching urge building up from behind her eyes. _Wow, this is so typical of Flora… I try to bushwhack her, and she's apologizing to me! What have I done? I shouldn't have tried anything… I know I'm playing for keeps, but goodness it should've been so easy, and now…It should have been someone else. It would've been easier for both of us._

As a person she definitely liked Flora. I mean how could you not? She was one of the, if not, THE sweetest girl in the entire school, she would likely give you her favorite sweater in a heartbeat if you just needed something to blow your nose on. But now here she was completely at her mercy, If she were so inclined to do so, Flora could easily turn her into a human slab of lead-punctured ballistic gel. Yet her eyes that had gone from furious and piercing, to soft and gleaming, told a different story. And her voice seemed to express unaffected concern for her well being; so it had to be a matter of rectitude and atonement that kept the demure girl around (and what's keeping Abby alive).

She continued. "I know you're not a bad person, you just made a bad decision. And as much as I would like to stay with you to keep you safe… I'm afraid I can't do that… and I also can't risk handing you back your gun. As much as I want to believe you'll do the right thing and only use it when it's the only safe option left… I know that likely won't be true. So I'll tell you what. I don't want you to be defenseless, but I don't want you to kill me either, so, I'll do a compromise… are you interested?" Flora asked.

Abigail could only look at her incredulously, did she hear that right. _She's going to let me have my weapon? I'm sorry, but Flora… you really are too nice for your own good._

Abby quickly straightened her expression back to normal and rapidly nodded.

Flora decided to take a page from her hyperactive pink friend Diane and felt now was a good time to implement her creative side. "Okay… I'm going to hide your gun and remove the current magazine… If you find it… you can keep it, if you don't, well… obviously you won't have it… I'm sorry to put you through such a hassle, but I really can't think of any better plan that doesn't put my life in danger. I digress though, are you up for it, I mean; if that's okay with you…?"

The Native-Missourian wanted to outright demand that Flora just give her the gun and stop obfuscating things… but she figured she ought to be grateful that she even had the opportunity to get her weapon back at all and not push her luck. She knew never to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Abigail gauged her options for the briefest of moments. Then quickly decided the best thing to do was to comply. For an instant she considered trying to bum rush Flora and just take back her gun by force… but dismissed it just as quickly as it entered… no way in fuck did she want to risk another dose of, "The Stare". The thought alone made her shiver. Even if it wasn't for that… it was too much of a risk as is. Flora was physically bigger than Abigail, taller, stronger, and actually adept at martial arts (a detail she relinquished or demonstrated to only an extremely select group of people).

"Okay, I'm in!" the beatnik said genuinely.

"Okay… I'll try to make it obvious for you… I can't have you follow me… wait here for 30 seconds… I promise I won't go far." Flora replied.

Now things were starting to sound unfair to the smaller girl. "What, no way! How do I know you won't just run off and pull something?" She questioned. Forgetting for a moment that she was talking to a person that could easily kill her right then and there.

Flora seemed at a loss for words, and hesitated with her speech. After a few seconds of deliberation, she came up with a fairer idea, slightly at her expense.

"Ok, well I'll tell you something else… how about we go off together until we reach the nearest building… then I'll hide it somewhere in the building and leave… then it will be all up to you to find it. Do you like that better?"

She knew she had pushed her luck by complaining, but thankfully due to the shy girl's timid disposition; i.e. lack of a backbone, it actually proved to be a fruitful effort. _What were the odds? Well with her, I guess quite high… always had to be the people pleaser, huh Flora?_

"Sounds great!" Abby chirped.

Flora seemed quite taken aback at her enthusiasm as she involuntarily flinched. Obviously she had expected a much more lackadaisical, or even disappointed response.

"Oh, really? Well, let's get going before the next person arrives… okay?" Flora advised in her famously aloof tone.

"Okay… Flora. Let's cut the B.S. and go!" Abby really wasn't in the mood to wait around, she was anxious and in a hurry, she was practically itching with excitement (_or is it nervousness_).

"Oh… okay then… Let me just do one thing… if that's okay with you…"

Abigail sighed tiredly. "Okay, but please make it quick. We're wasting time as is!"

"Oh… I'm sorry… this will only take a second… I promise." She assured the more impatient teen. Flora went to the task she set for herself… unloading the magazine, after all, she didn't want the amber-eyed girl to make a dive for the gun and wind up right back in the situation she just narrowly escaped from, not again.

She unprofessionally fondled around with the gun, until she eventually discovered the button that ejected the magazine, her curiosity was piqued as she noticed the brass glinting in the harsh white lights from the top of the hallow narrow rectangle. She didn't know how to properly unload a magazine filled with 32 individual pieces of gilded lead, so she curtly stuffed it into the waistline of her black yoga pants until a later usage or more proper method of disposal would make itself present.

"All done! Now we can leave." Flora reminded. Abigail flashed a succinct, yet gleeful grin while a spark twinkled in her eye for the briefest of moments.

And with that, the two girls made a beeline towards the forest (Away from the gruesome mangled mess that was once Boy#11 a.k.a. David Langston mind you) to an uncertain destination, both with completely different thoughts and agendas for the future in their minds.

As the two girls ran with dreadful thoughts plaguing their mind, an old song occurred to Flora. It was a classic that meant a lot to her personally, and in this situation it was more fitting than ever. _After all, song's written for times like these, isn't it?_

Despite the circumstances, she couldn't help but mouth along to the lyrics of the song. _Tramps like us, baby we were born to run._

* * *

The boy could hardly wait. He was literally shivering in anticipation; even though he was suppressed, that wouldn't deter him from bouncing up and down in his seat like an excited puppy dog. It would be his turn next! Just under two minutes ago he saw the contestant that marked the halfway point of the student release order run out the door, _That techno obsessed English-Mexican disc-jockey… the big wigs truly do have an eye for quality when it comes to character, eh? What was her name? Vicky? _He would be exactly the twenty-sixth person to be let out into the game (_Just over the halfway mark, eh, better than last_) However, even more than he waited in his seat, he began to make observations about how things were run and how people were going out.

He had watched all eight of the previous seasons to the point of saturation, observed all the types of people that would be cast into the game, and while some were simply enigmatic wildcards, generally he was able to distinguish who would play the game, or become cannon fodder, that and he had taken A.P. Psychology which actually turned out to be a valuable asset when it came to estimation and analysis of his fellow competition. Many had gone out absolutely terrified and would likely become early eliminations (Most notably Boy #14 Joel Hellmuth who from the smell of it released his bowels upon departure, _eww_), others were much more solid in their dispositions, Toby Vrett (Boy#12) looked as confident as could be with a sly grin riding on his lips (despite the heavy artillery that rang out upon Flora's departure), as if he were stepping out onto the basketball courts again _And this was the Titan's chance at state championships! _Rain Forscythe (Girl#15) was about as cocky as could be if her face was any implication, her grimace was fierce and had fire in it. She simply looked fervent and intense. _Sweet, competition _(What Nick Delaney a.k.a. Boy#23 didn't realize was that his judge of character was horrendous, and Rain was actually just irate at being chosen for the game, not looking to thrill kill)_!_

While others, which was the most puzzling thing to Nick, were simply stoic. Such as the cases of Octavia Manago (Girl#16) and Rodney Woodrow (Boy#22). Each of their gazes were cold as ice, those were the faces of true Psychopaths if he had ever seen it… And they both had the merit to be called that, Rodney being a thug and member of Walter's (Boy#3) gang, and Octavia being a phlegmatic and asocial ambivert (The only two exceptions to her usually jaded disposition are Vicky Sanchez and Diane Pye, in the case of Diane, it isn't exactly under warm regards). He wasn't the least surprised that those two would be dangerous. _Definitely gotta look out for those two, but look how sweet it is to have competition, Awesome!_

"Now it's my personal admirer's turn to go, Boy Number Twenty-Three Nicholas Delaney. It's your time!" Julia cooed. "Good Luck!" she cautioned.

On Nick's part, he uproariously cheered and woohooed, like he was congratulating himself on sticking it out long enough to see the light of day (_Or night_). His seatmate Nicole Gates (Girl#23) just looked at him with frightened horror-stricken doe eyes, as her lower lip quivered incessantly.

Once Horatio and finished untangling the Battle Royale fanatic, he went with mandates and stood back, just as he was told.

Instead of being the Peanut Gallery as with some of the other previous contestants, Horatio Miller just remained tacit (although he did flash Nick an upset scowl for being such an avid supporter of the BR). Not wanting to stick around or leave any fanfare, Nicholas Delaney calmly strolled to the front of the room, where Sgt. Allan purposefully handed him his bag. As soon as he felt the cloth equipage tighten around in his grip, he took it as his personal cue to hit the road. _I can't linger outside and pick people off one by one… there was another person with the same idea earlier… sure the firing stopped, but who's to say they won't come back! Huh, what then, and besides, I don't even know if I have a gun. Well… I'll come up with something, for now just go out there and find some people to stalk, and then use your weapon to score some kills. If not, take there's and do it. Yeah that's the ticket!_

And with those thoughts (and before he even knew it), Nick was already out into the open pasture. Not wanting to obfuscate things, He took a sharp left and leapt out up and over the low receding yet abundant foliage into the unforgiving tree line… The game was now on!

The boy had some thoughts on his mind that he simply HAD to share with the audience… they needed to know he was on their side and wanted more than anything to prove that HE was worthy of their undivided attention.

"Hey all you out there in TV land," the boy muttered with a cough into his microphone. He continued, "my name is Nick Delaney, and I am going to be your winner of this Battle Royale."

Opening his pack in the wake of a large nearby shrub, he quickly leaped upon it and pulled it open. _Food, food, water, water, map, great, where's the weapon, where's the, aha!_

The boy found that he had been graced with a gun; A Beretta 9mm semi-automatic pistol to be precise. Police issue. In his mind, it was the Platonic weapon. Reliable, can be easily concealed and punch holes through solid rock with aim that was essentially point and click. And as an added bonus, he discovered it held seventeen rounds in the clip as he checked the magazine (_Fully loaded, sweet_). He observed how the grip almost fit like a glove in his hands. _Perfect. _

"I see I have been lucky enough to have been assigned a Beretta Ninety-Two!" He narrated as if he were the host of a survive-in-the-wilderness television show. Wanting to add additional commentary and prove his knowledge about his weapon; he added, "There's a reason why the U.S. Army replaced the Colt M1911 with it! And soon, my friends, I'm going to demonstrate why. And then… I'll emerge as the winner, and as your best friend… Wish me luck America!" He concluded.

Feeling more confident now that he had a capable weapon and that he had successfully psyched himself up for the task at hand, the boy smiled widely and flashed a thumbs up to the nearest camera he could see (high above in a tree about three feet to his right). It would be easy, all too easy…

He didn't know why, but he found himself humming a Bobby D song. He wasn't too much of a fan of Mr. Darin, yet the song still held a sentimental quality with him. As well as it seemed strangely befitting of the predatory sense of glee he was currently feeling…

_Hmm hmm, and the shark, it has teeth, and it wears them in its Macheath, he has a knife,but the knife one doesn't see… _

He was ready to deal death, one bullet at a time.


	7. Hour 1: 49 Contestants Remaining

It had officially been seventy-nine minutes since midnight, or more candidly, 1:19 AM. One by one the girl had seen how all of her friends choose their style of exit. Flora (Girl#11) was escorted out by that friendly soldier (_Yet still not friendly enough to help get us out of here_); Pinkie (Girl#13 a.k.a. Diane Pye) had left with tears in her eyes and with her hair as a lifeless waterfall of pink, _that's not good. _Then it was Rain (Girl#15) who out of all of the Pallet Girls released so far (_all of them but me, figures_) had easily the most truculent departure of them all, which hardly surprised the girl, she was just being how she always was. _Figured this game would have affected all of us, but of course not Dash, she never would let it get to her. _Then next was Spike (Boy#21 a.k.a. Leonard Tagashi) who came out as terrified and forlorn as Pinkie.

_Seeing him turn around and stare me dead in the eyes like that… I don't think I'll ever forget that look. He has never looked that… awful before. But this is a game of death; he knows his untimely demise is coming… Not if I have anything to say about it that is… I'm going to have to find him out there, hope he didn't wander off too far. _The Asian bookworm thought to herself, thoroughly concerned with the potential whereabouts of her "number one assistant", sure that title sounded objective, maybe even to be considered an invective. Yet Spike himself treasured that title and took no umbrage of it. _What if he's not lost at all, but, dead? No Twi, pull yourself together, PULL. YOURSELF. TOGETHER! _She scrunched her neatly kempt straight hair in both of her hands, gripping bunches of it like a reign in an attempt to pinch out her frustration.

With her thoughts running ragged, she was starting to lose focus of her plans for the game, what and who she was going to try to emulate, all of her aspirations to waste… _Come on… don't lose yourself like with SAT's… this isn't a test, it's far worse. But as long as you can keep your cool, you'll be fine…_

"It'll all be fine." Mitsumi softly whispered under her breath as she wrinkled her nose. _Great, talking to yourself, that's one of the first signs of insanity, isn't it? _She normally wasn't the kind of person to talk to herself (except when under near inexorable duress), but the prospect of the game was something that freaked everyone out at least a little bit.

Mitsumi Sato a.k.a. Girl#5 was only taking inventory of her closest friends and those she planned on reuniting with later on as soon as she was out. Her acquaintances and less familiar colleagues would elude her notice as she deemed them of being unworthy of her effort. There was Violet (Girl#24) who looked like a dismal mess, her hair was quite messy and unkempt (if they were in any different circumstances, Mitsumi knew that Violet would have thrown the mother of all bitch-fits over something as devastating as her hair being disheveled), her profuse sobbing had ruined the aesthetic facial augmenters she liked to wear, as it was running miserably down her face and painting black streaks in a downward river of anguish. All the unnecessary makeup she added to her countenance was so smudged by her tears that she looked like a portrait out of the expressionism movement. That was the last glimpse of the former juvenile noblewoman that any of those who remained in the classroom had seen. Then a little over ten minutes later, April (Girl#2) was released; she made not even the mildest clue of any fuss or tantrum as she ran through the door, pack in hand. And most recently, Lily Marsh (Girl#4) went out rather insouciantly almost two minutes ago, it would be her seatmates' turn.

"Now Boy Number Five, Jerry Tran, You're live! Make us proud!" Julia's all-too familiar voice chirped for the fortieth time.

Jerry winced at the announcement that it was his time, he did his best to keep down some of the vomit that had been ascending up his esophagus since he woke up about two hours ago… now was the time where it was more difficult than ever before.

Jerry was now free. He took one last glance at Mitsumi; his face conveyed a mix of different feelings. Hope, fear, sadness, but the most obvious one seemed to be cluelessness. He was essentially a sheep without a shepherd without the former Senior Class Presidents' guidance. The best way to describe how he looked was to say he appeared like a deer caught in the headlights. _Never really knew what that looked like until now._

The dark-haired girl couldn't stand to see him such disarray, besides, morale is a key factor in the plan that the revolutionary had in store for things to come. She needed to assure the boy that things were going to be okay. She took a moment to clear her throat before talking.

"Don't worry Jerry, Just wait outside for me and we'll go from there! I promise." She said with as much candor as she could muster.

That relieved him just the slightest bit as the corners of his lips arced just enough where his mouth formed something of a semi-smile, just hardly though. Nevertheless he gave a nod of affirmation and rose from his desk. He then made his way past Julia (he wanted to let out everything he had on her but sided with his better judgment and quickly got rid of the thought, he would have to let it slide, _for now_) near the cage-carts and preceded to retrieve his bag from Sgt. Allan. He made his way out the door, and out into the confines of the island. Awaiting future commands from his leader.

Eighty long and nerve-wracking seconds elapsed before inevitably Girl Number Five's name was announced.

"Mitsumi Sato… you know what to do. Domo Arigato!" she flippantly mocked while squinting her eyes to where she almost couldn't see. Obviously imitating what she believed to be a stereotypical Asian person.

The Japanese girl took a considerable amount of umbrage to the derogatory display and against her better judgment muttered "Kutabare" (which translates to "fuck you" in Japanese). Fortunately for Mitsumi, the co-host had no way of knowing what she had said, because not only had barely she caught it in earshot, and two, she sure as fuck didn't know that damn Yellow language. She just disregarded it as nothing, shrugged and nonchalantly went back to twiddling her thumbs and thinking about clever zingers for when she got to rock the microphone over the next couple of days. Mitsumi was now free to leave… her life actually depended on it. Hardly seeing any reason to stick around, she didn't bother to listen for any commentary from Horatio, any more pejoratives from Julia, or anything from any of the remaining students. Her only goal was to retrieve her pack and get out. And that's exactly what she did; from there she made her way out through the sliding exit and into the blinding light. _God please don't let this be the last thing I see… _

The pitch whiteness was replaced by brightly lit flat meadow. A thick army of dark and imposing trees and shrubs were suffocating the outer ring of the pasture, within the field itself were just a few thick and tall haphazardly placed overgrowths of high-grass and shrubs. Even though most would have found the scene rather ordinary and even platitudinous, To Mitsumi, it was beautiful; ethereal even. _I bet this would be like Flora's version of heaven… except for that dead person over there. _

Even from the distance she was situated in (and the fact she was running), she could see the bloody wreck of once-living flesh that was formerly David Langston (Boy#11). The bookworm by all odds should have had her fear circuits overloaded with terror and disgust, perhaps even doubling over and regurgitating her stomach contents. But no, not her… _There's probably going to be plenty worse sights than that carcass over there… if anything that's going to be tame compared to some of the other causes of death around here… _Of course in all truth that was the first time the valedictorian had ever seen an actual corpse, not like in movies or pictures on the Internet or in history books… but in the flesh, mutilated cadaver. _Heavy…_

She suddenly saw Jerry Tran emerge from a bush just to the left of her peripheral vision, Her line of sight was instantly torn away from what remained of the former class bully and he was holding some large black rectangular metal block in his hands, there was a small handle underneath the block that Jerry was gripping onto, both of his hands were underneath the device. And it was pointed at her! Suddenly the connection between the images her visual perception had conceived, and her brain had been united. It was a gun!

"Jesus don't shoot me!" Mitsumi hollered out defensively, stopping in her tracks to waver her hands in defense.

"Oh my god! Mitsumi I-I'm S-sorry! I just wanted to see what I got-I didn't mean to scare you- honest! Pinkie Promise!" Jerry cried, referring of course to Diane Pye's patented 'Pinkie Promises'.

She inhaled and exhaled a series of hushed breaths, relief starting to sink in. After a few seconds of palpable tension and steadily abating fear, Mitsumi chose her words carefully. She unconsciously swallowed hard, biting back the unease that had taken over her.

"It's, Quite alright Jerry. You didn't mean any threat, I should have been more wary of my surroundings. It wasn't your fault in any shape or form." She elaborated in a calm, but still no less intimidating voice.

"Oh, okay… I just wanted to see what I got as a weapon… I guess I shouldn't have aimed it at the exit like that, huh?" He said bashfully, a faint blush crossing his face.

"Yeah, I guess not." She said matter-of-factly. He looked down at his side and whimpered silently. She still kind of wanted to preach him on his stupidity but quickly dismissed the notion; she knew she had to be patient with the boy. She then asked out of curiosity "What is that thing anyways?" She approached Jerry and eyed the gun with inquiry.

"Umm, well according to the instruction manual that came with this thing. It's an… Heckler and Koch… UMP45 submachine gun." He recited as if it were an excerpt from a script he had difficulty remembering. "That's pretty lucky I guess, huh?". Even though the boy had no idea how to operate such a thing… he got it loaded, maybe even found the safety, but getting it into a firing sort of mood just didn't seem to be in the cards. The class-clown would have to learn in due course, but the boy had all the time in the world to do so. Well, three days, in actuality, but it seemed like all the time in the world. Regardless, to anyone it was easily one of the most formidable weapons in the game. Fully automatic at 600 rounds per minute, lightweight, maneuverable… and guaranteed to cut any potential assailant to ribbons! He had counted seven pre-loaded box magazines in his bag… which if his math was correct, would equal to 210 bullets… more than enough ammo to see him through the game, should he decide to put it to use for whatever arcane reason.

"Yeah, I'd say it is." The girl said, she lightly snickered afterwards; trying to break the awkwardness between them

"So umm, what did you get?" Jerry asked impetuously, wanting to change the subject off of him.

"Well… umm, let's see." The library assistant responded. She tore open the zipper and rummaged through her large duffel bag. All of the customary implements and survival necessities were present… yet no weapon.

"What the fuck?" The dark-haired girl exclaimed.

"What?! What's wrong?" Jerry asked, worried of his (one of many) crushes' sudden shout.

"They said we'd all get a weapon, but I can't find anything in here!"

"Well there has to be something, they did promise that everyone got SOMETHING." The theater geek reasoned.

Mitsumi spoke in between tearing out handfuls of miscellaneous objects of self-sustenance out of her pack.

"Well clearly they bullshitted us because I don't see any-" she paused for a brief moment, her face contorted into a disdainful scowl.

"Wow… those big wigs sure have a fucked-up sense of humor huh?" The girl bitterly mused.

"Huh? What makes you say that?" Jerry said, quite bewildered.

"Because—This." The girl deadpanned as she lifted the object of reference into his view.

It was an object no bigger, nor no thicker than your typical cell phone, yet weighed substantially less… it wasn't made of metal or even technological in any respect. 125 years old; it was a deck of playing cards, neatly organized in their traditional order in the sleeve it came with. While Mitsumi knew her way around a deck of cards (years of magic tricks and card game experience had saw to that) and could appreciate the novelty of the vintage poker accessory, in the context of the Battle Royale however; she knew she had struck out in terms of weaponry.

It was an utterly abysmal weapon… if you could even call it that. Sure she had heard stories and seen online footage of people who would flick the cards with such expertise that it would veritably saw through hot dogs, or go halfway through cucumbers. She knew she didn't possess such skill, and even if she did… it was a one in a million chance it would hit, let alone do damage and disable an attacker! Worst case scenario it would graze a person and give them a pretty bad paper cut, but no way in fuck could she actually defend herself with it! Not a chance, especially against all of the others who surely had blades, blunt objects and pea shooters of their own to their names.

The Vietnamese youth only stared incredulously.

"Yeah, fucking lovely huh?" The junior-librarian groaned.

"Eh not quite so, but at least we have my machine gun!" Jerry beamed as he lifted the device upwards in his hands, displaying it as a mayor would present a medal at a grand ceremony.

"Eh I guess so, well I guess if that is the case. It looks like you're going to have to take the lead." The girl explained.

Jerry suddenly shrunk in his posture and stared at the Asian girl bug-eyed for a split-second, his face then transformed to one of unease and he spoke with a faltering voice.

"Umm, I don't think I can do that… I think it'd be best for you to take the lead… besides your really smart, I bet you can figure out how to use this much easier than I could, you know. If you want." He offered.

Was he being serious? Not only does he have the vastly superior firepower (what she had wasn't even in the ballpark of being called "firepower") and he refuses to have her follow him, he was literally offering her his weapon so _she _could do it, one of the most dangerous ones in the game on top of that; He would essentially be defenseless without it, which meant if the pair were to be separated, he'd be completely screwed! And to top it off she was fairly certain that she'd prove to be about as inept of handling a weapon of that caliber as him… she was beginning to wonder why he was pouring so much faith into her, after all she wasn't divine or ineffable by any means… she was about as flawed as him or anybody else. Yet he seemed to believe in her unconditionally. A loyalty that's nearly impenetrable, so it seemed. If he really trusted her… maybe she could oblige, besides… she didn't plan on harming him. And it likely would intimidate any hunter. She could also imagine the power that came from such a deadly device. She gauged her options and seeing at as having no faults, the girl considered it. But first she had to be absolutely positive that it was a consensual agreement. She simply had to.

"Umm, are you sure about that Jerry? I mean that is our only weapon and it was originally yours… it wouldn't be fair of me to just take it from you. And who says I'll be better at handling such a beast?" Mitsumi responded to his earlier proposition.

He firmly nodded. "Yes, I am sure. I don't think I'm comfortable with this thing. And after all, a woman of your magnitude deserves to wield something like this!" He lifted the submachine gun up once more for emphasis. "Please, just take it." He softly pleaded.

She briefly looked down at her feet as a habit of contemplation; she then looked at his face. "Okay." She succinctly agreed.

Jerry genuinely smiled now that he didn't have to worry about being the leader, he always did prefer not having to make tough decisions, and he always chose the role of being a cog in the machine if given the option. He was by no means an idiot, just a coward given everything else that had happened to him thus so far.

He handed her the submachine gun with the stock facing her. She cradled it into her arms like a football player would a pigskin. She inspected the UMP side-to-side, top to bottom; eyeing the foreign firearm with a morbid fascination… she couldn't and wouldn't explain why, but she could almost feel raw power and energy flow torrentially into her; like a current of dark chi, or something spiritual like that. She fully grasped the weapon into what she believed was a proper firing position which to any firearms expert, would have been quite amateur at best.

She toyed experimentally with the gun while Jerry only stared at her with grim confusion.

During all of this, both had failed to notice that another two minutes have elapsed, they also failed to notice the soft footsteps that pattered with elevating frequency and oscillation behind the pair; what they did notice was the emphatic cocking of a gun. They both froze like statues and went completely petrified… _shit-shit-shit! _ _How could I have been so stupid? _Mitsumi's face flushed red; she could feel unadulterated rage burning behind her eyes, her blood felt ready to boil. Simply put her face could be best described as "You don't wanna fuck with that". Her counterpart on the other hand was anything but, his expression revealed all of his fear and anguish ready to spill out onto the scene. He appeared to be on the verge of crying and or vomiting, his body couldn't decide what to do but luckily his mind made sure neither of those bodily functions occurred.

The tension was so palpable it would've barely been cut with a machete. After what felt like an eternity for all three involved, the unseen gunman finally began to talk.

"Don't talk, don't make any brash movements, don't even fucking blink!" The attacker commanded in a gruff voice. "Got me, ese? Now… slowly turn around… sloooowly! If you make any sudden movements… I'll fucking end both of you! You got me?" The Asian duo cautiously nodded. "Good… now put your hands in the air and turn to face me!" the solid masculine voice dictated. Both were pissed and disappointed by this unfortunate turn of events, yet both wanted to live; so seeing no other viable option, they both complied. They repositioned their feet until they both went in a complete 180 and were now facing their hostage-taker. First and foremost, Mitsumi lowered the gun cradled in her forearms, and placed it on the grass by her feet before raising up into an erect stance… she could now see their interrogator.

It was none other than Carlos Menendez a.k.a. Boy#6, and he was pointing a Walther P99 pistol at the pair. His face was stern and authoritative, yet even in the haphazard artificial lighting, the girl could still see the haunted look in his eyes and the beads of sweat accumulating around his eyebrows and temples. The white light reflecting through the sweat droplets gave them the effect of looking like solid glass. He was doing his best to look tough, and to most the ruse would have been a success, but not to the astute valedictorian… she read enough psychology textbooks to know when someone was guising. _You may just be able to get yourself out of this yet; Twi… Must keep him distracted._

She flashed him an austere, burning glare of her own. He involuntarily flinched, but intimidation quickly gave way back to ruggedness. Truth was he didn't want to have to be here any longer than he had to, and if Bonnie were to prematurely cut in, that would _not_ be good. He decided to cut to the chase while he still could._ Come on man, don't flinch again, flinching means weakness… weakness can damn kill you!_

"You two, leave now! I won't let you attack the rest of us!" he said as he trained his gun on the pretty Japanese girl before him.

She was about to tell him that they were leaving anyway and meant no harm to the rest of them but before she could vocalize such a notion Jerry went on his 'Mr. Nice Guy, diplomat' mode.

"Carlos, we don't want to fight. She and I were planning on all of us to meet up here so we could all think of a way to escape this. I mean with all of us thinking of a way to get out of here, we're bound to think of something right?"

As beautiful as that sounded, that plan was way too unrealistic. In the scheme the Asian revolutionary had in mind… only her closest friends and most trusted advisee's were to be included amongst the rebels. Jerry really tried to believe in the good of the world but this was just plain blind optimism. He wasn't even the one to come up with the plan, yet he believed in it more ardently than the mastermind herself. He expressed all of this while unconsciously approaching the soccer-star.

The girl failed to notice that he was making his way towards Carlos. In a blink of an eye, He grabbed Jerry, grappled him in close and got him in a headlock and pressed the barrel of the pistol against the boys' temple with his free hand. In the time it took the Mexican boy to do that; Mitsumi reacted with split-second reflexes and was able to snatch up her machine gun and trained the sight on him.

The boy spoke with a confidant half-smirk that separated many a girl from her panties, "Sato, I doubt you'd risk shooting me with Jerry this close to me. I doubt you've ever shot a gun before and you wouldn't want to hit the wrong target now, do you, Holmes?"

_Shit, he got me blackmailed… ugh._ For the briefest of moments, she considered just leaving Jerry for dead, or perhaps even worse… just opening fire on the both of them… but she quickly dismissed that twisted idea. She lowered the weapon.

"Good. Now pick both of your stuff up and I'll let go of your boyfriend so both of you can be on your merry way." She lightly recoiled at the mention of the word "boyfriend". _Sure he's a nice enough guy, and is more or less an asset to this whole operation… but boyfriend… I'm not so sure about that. _

Nevertheless, she hurriedly picked up both her duffel bag, and her accomplices' (thankfully both of them were quite light, yet still a little bulky) and slung them over her left shoulder. She easily had them both with just one hand… after all; all of the viands in the bag were incredibly lightweight. Her handling of the machine gun was only minimally impaired by the added weight and distraction of her left arm. She still aimed the weapon at Carlos. When she was done, the girl glared at him, expecting that he would release Jerry already but he still held him at gunpoint.

"Okay Sato, now give me your U-M-P." He said with a smirk.

"My what?" She asked. Mitsumi made a very odd face of inquiry and confusion, for even Jerry who has thus so far proven to be an absolute, for lack of better words, pussy in the context of the game snickered despite his predicament.

"He mean's the gun Mit" He clarified.

_Ohhh, so that's what this thing is called._ Her face then turned to one of contemplation. No way did she want to give up their only real weapon, yet this was dire straits, a catch-22. A person's life was at stake here… yet they would both be unarmed without it… _Fuck it; Jerry's life is more important right now… hopefully when we're all assembled together, my friends will have some firearms of their own._

Just as she considered handing over the gun to Carlos, a thought popped into her head. If he gets the gun, he still might not keep his end of the bargain. If he did release Jerry, then both of them would be left defenseless and he could easily kill the both of them with the gun. _I'm obviously stuck between a rock and a hard place and the other option that I could think of is run away and just hope that he doesn't kill Jerry._

"What are you waiting for? I could easily kill him now, you know." He barked at the schoolgirl. Things were really coming down to the wire now, at any moment he could blow Jerry's brains out… he had the leverage in an emotional and moral stance… however what Mitsumi also knew was that _if_ he did decide to kill Jerry… there would be nothing protecting him from receiving a mechanized mow down of bullets. While Mitsumi WAS at a disadvantage due to her morals, if she were a lesser person… they'd be about at even odds. She needed something to level the playing field, and fast!

Then like a gift from the heavens, it arrived in the form of soft thumping. Footsteps! And it seemed she was the only one of the three meadow attendees to take notice of the increasingly audible mezzo forte ground pounding.

She flickered her eyes to the doorway and then noticed that Bonnie Navarro (Girl#6) was almost by the door; and she was holding something that appeared to be a toy gun of some sort. Though Mitsumi knew that it was a terrible thing to do, she decided to make her into a distraction. _Sorry Bon-Bon._

"That" she said in response to the Latino's earlier question, pointing one of her fingers towards Bonnie. Carlos turned to look and she let his guard down in the process. Luckily for the Asian girl, Jerry caught on with the plan and pushed Carlos away and made a beeline towards her. But before either of the two could flee too far, a blaring launch sound pervaded the air. It sounded like an excerpt from one of the pyrotechnics being launched at one of the Cold Rivers firework shows held every New Years' and 4th of July… yet it was an earthbound sound! Then Mitsumi's eyes were ferociously eclipsed as a literal ball of blinding white light with an outer ring of coral pink was sent on a crash course through the air; complicating the vision of Jerry, Carlos, and of course, Mitsumi. The Japanese girl was within the closest vicinity of the flaming projectile, so she felt the brunt of its wrath.

Second's after the flare hit the forest floor, it exploded in a controlled blast of white phosphorous and magnesium… instead of really exploding, it rapidly burned and consumed the grass around it; scorching it instantly, yet thankfully not spreading anywhere else. While no one was in mortal danger or even seriously injured in the blast. Mitsumi could feel her skin being lightly singed in the encompassing heat that reached almost 3000 degrees Fahrenheit. It was extensively burning her left side and a considerable portion of her thigh with flecks of combustible chemicals. In searing pain and fear of being temporarily blind, she aimlessly took off into a full sprint. Momentarily forgetting all about Jerry, Carlos, Bonnie… any of them. While the pain was near crippling, She was fueled by pure epinephrine and desire to survive, and nothing else. The main priority was escaping with her life. Groping around without sight, she closed her eyes and only got a flash of vibrant colors; sparks of panchromatic pigments were swimming like sperm under a microscope all throughout the ocean of white that was her visual perception. _No, nothing. I can't see a fucking thing! _And so with that, she fled the battlefield outside the bunker and left Carlos, Bonnie, and Jerry to their own devices.

* * *

While she couldn't see anything, she could hear everything. Obscenities being shouted in rapid succession, loud resounding pops being fired from somewhere behind her. The way they were reverberating off of the tree trunks, bouncing off of the surfaces and warping the sounds immensely. Screams and cries of shock and disarray also rang out through the air; it was a symphony of violence and terror. Noise she had to escape. _Just keep moving Twi, sorry Jerry but I want to live._

At some point during her journey, she felt a prickling sensation behind her right thigh. It was a dull and muted pain, like being poked by a needle. She regarded it as a possible bug bite or perhaps being pricked by a piece of wood. Although everything suddenly seemed to slow down just slightly, like one second was now a second and a half. But she just assumed it was just a mental conundrum.

She didn't know how long she had ran, just enough where she knew that she was thoroughly fatigued (She never was much of an athlete) and that her lungs and the lactic acid in her lower extremities were telling her that now was the time to slow down. She groped around blindly, propping herself up against a thick tree. She had no idea how far she made it or where she was, or even if anybody decided to follow her. She just knew she had every reason to be concerned; she was alone, lost, and one of her followers had vanished and was quite possibly dead. Without him, that'd be a detriment to her escape plan. Great.

Though not all hope was lost. Thankfully throughout the whole ordeal, she had successfully managed to travel a decent way into the forest, enough so where she caught sight of her first piece of infrastructure, a small wooden shack that paled in comparison to the tall and thick trees surrounding it. As her vision began fleeting back to her, she regained most of her bearings. She could hear nothing except for the chirping of some crickets and the natural breeze crinkling some leaves which gave her an odd sense of comfort, the feeling in her hands and the weight bearing slightly on her shoulder was coming back to her… she realized she still had both of their packs, and the machine gun was still wrapped in a vice grip in her hands (she was quite surprised of herself that she had the discipline to not completely empty the clip into anything she wavered her hands at). She didn't know how she managed to hang on to the thing and completely ignored its presence. But she knew that it was definitely a benediction, and didn't bother to ponder much on it.

Picking up a jog, she ran away from the brig and hoped that she could reach the hopefully nice, quiet, and clean place soon so that she could formulate another strategy to find Jerry (if he was still alive mind you) or maybe Spike, or Flora… just anyone she knew she could trust with unaffected sincerity. At first she thought about maybe trekking back to the bunker to check to see if Jerry was still around there, But she then disregarded that plan since most likely he decided to get the hell out of dodge and fled. That and it was pretty damn dumb considering that she could easily run into one of the hunters of the game and get prematurely whacked, then of course there was the distinct possibility that Carlos or Bonnie or even another killer was still lingering around the starting bunker's meadow. Besides even if she did manage to make it back there unscathed, and no hunter was ambushing potential victims, odds were that all she would find would be nothing, or a pile of burning corpses. Ugh. _That's thinking dynamically Twi… we're doomed…_

She cringed at the thought just as she reached her sanctuary. It was inexplicably creepier now that she was up close to it, even though the only thing she'd have to worry about is if someone had decided to set up camp in there. Nevertheless, she was filled with the kind of fear one would get in a haunted house ride at Halloween.

An aged wooden construction that likely hadn't seen renovation in at least a decade. It had no exterior lighting and was a very small space, maybe slightly larger than your average tool shed. It would be an ideal location for any sort of sensible person attempting to wait the game out. A place like this would not draw attention easily, and to anyone that did attempt to go up to the structure. It emanated a fairly spooky vibe that would hopefully discourage any potential trespasser. And even if all of that failed, she did have her (_his_) Heckler & Koch UMP45. Anyone who waltzed in would be asked for identification, anyone who refuses to answer or instigates a fight would receive a warning shot, then nothing more. While Mitsumi was adamantly against murdering innocents, she had no qualms about self-defense. _If and only if it is truly self-defense. _One slip of the finger, would end any confrontation quick and easily; much better than having to get up close and personal with a knife, too much pain, and fear, and blood… Ugh. That's enough of that.

For Mitsumi Sato or Girl#5 to the betting world, it would be her temporary abode until she got her head cleared.

She couldn't explain why, but at that moment. The stress of everything that had occurred in the past ninety minutes had caught up to her (as well as another unseen sedative). The toll it had taken was now abundantly clear to the young leader. Her eyelids felt heavy, and her vision seemed to blur ever so slightly. Her burns had assuaged from a handicapping pain, to just an ache that trickled down her side, an uncomfortable nuisance if anything. It made her thirsty on top of the entire running she had done (poor athletics aside she did do a respectably long sprint). So in short, she was quite winded and "plum tuckered out" as her cowgirl friend April (Girl#2) would say.

So with all intents and purposes, the girl pushed open the rickety wood door. And entered the shady loft.

It was as unimpressive and homely on the inside as it was on the outside, except maybe even less so. It was likely a squatter hangout before the island was evacuated. It was rather unorganized with various food and beverage packaging littered all about the concrete floor, glass bottles and halves of glass bottles were scattered all about the ground, as well as hundreds of brown and green shards of glass (_Cheap beer appears to have the been the beverage of choice)_. _Man, this place is actually quite the dump… but I can't complain. I bet many of the other contestants are much worse off_. There was a cheap white-tile counter top with a plain and dingy metal sink (likely didn't even have any sort of irrigation system or connection to actual water, even if it did, there was no way it could've been potable).

Ordinary cupboards were just above the counter, a few of them had their door's swayed open to reveal their contents. Nothing. The bottom portion of the counter itself had several cabinets that normally would've been used to store cleaning supplies and household chemicals like ammonia and bleach (_don't mix those two together kiddies_).

There were two folding chairs that had identical black plastic seats and backs. Those were to the left of the piece of furniture that caught the fatigued girls attention the most.

Her weary eyes were drawn like a moth to a flame by a small twin-sized cot. It was a camping bed with a portable lightweight metal frame. On top of it was a thin mattress, it didn't appear to be very sanitary; there were no blankets, sheets or pillows to accompany the sullied resting platform, it was standalone. Dried stains of… god knows what, were all over the thing. And the whole aesthetic design and color had considerably faded since whenever it was manufactured. The primary color it was now adorned with was beige (for some reason, to Mitsumi beige was the color of age). Yet to the girl, it was all superficial. She was too tired and out of it to bicker about it too much, it was a bed… and she considered herself quite fortunate to have found it. It was dirty, and there were no additional covers to keep her warm, but it would still do just fine. She could use the duffel bags as headrests, which would at least be a moderately comfortable setup. She threw the two bags off of her shoulder and flung them onto the end of the pillow-top where she would rest her weary head.

As she delicately laid herself down, a part of her really hoped that there wasn't a bedbug or lice, or any other parasitic infestation/colony breeding in the shabby mattress. Yet another part seriously didn't give a damn. What she was pestered by though was the stench. It reeked of cheap booze and homeless people… it was a pungent odor that pervaded the air with a musty aroma… it was nearly making her nauseous_, _but candidly speaking she was too tired to ponder on it for long.

With that final thought, she fell back into the soiled bed and laid her head onto the makeshift cushions. All she wanted was to sleep, even if running the risk of catching head lice or being bitten by bedbugs. And sleep she did. She would spend the next several hours drifting away into unconsciousness and being whisked away into dreamland without a care or a worry in the world, Blissfully unaware and separated of the hell that was about to follow as soon as even before sunrise.

* * *

The wait was finally coming to an end. Six minutes ago, Shira (Girl#8) was released; she turned around and said falteringly to the boy "Good luck, Spencer." And for whatever reason, he cherished that sentiment. Sure it was mawkish in its disposition and she could barely speak it out coherently. But it was still an expression for the boy's well being, it showed that she still had heart. _People like that don't belong in a game like this, no one does, but especially not girls like her._

He was never that well acquainted with the girl, he just knew that she was the stepsister of Violet (Girl#24). From outwards impressions he could gather that the girl was not gregarious in the slightest bit. The exact opposite, she was about as talkative as it got; she never meant harm to anyone, she just talked too much. However, even he could tell that at heart she was an innocent child that never truly outgrew her quasi-infantile nature. That saddened him deeply. _Wish I didn't have such a chicken shit reaction, I should have said something… instead I looked away… that's the humanitarian thing to do, huh, Spence?_

Afterwards was Michael Yunin (Boy#9), the short Russian whom the slick-haired boy could personally attest to how his ribs showed from underneath his skin (encounters in the locker room had revealed that physical detail about Michael to him). He left without the slightest hint of fuss or depression as he scurried out of the classroom. Disappeared like a ghost…

And as of latest, and perhaps most frightening was Trixie Song (Girl#9). Upon her departure, she turned around and flashed the track-star an evilly confident smirk with a sultry wink to boot. It nearly made him shiver with fear. Subsequently, she casually strolled to the front of the room and nonchalantly caught her bag as it was tossed to her. She coolly exited the room, leaving Spencer Ryan (Boy#10) alone with Julia and the three military men. How arrogant and sneering she was in the face of death. For some odd reason that terrified the boy even more than everything else he had seen and heard thus far. _Figures a vindictive bitch like her would be an eager participator in this shit… gotta look out for her._

He fidgeted in his seat as a means to alleviate some of his nervous energy. It was nearly killing him; he had to have been the hapless sap to be last. If things had been traditional, Lyra (Girl#25) would have been last. But no, not this year! They _had_ to do a random draw… Abigail _had _to be first… and BLAMMO! _You're fucking last! Just great. Last one standing man, you're the last one in this room, it's not all that bad, sure, someone might be out there, a hunter, anything, just watch out, just, keep it cool, keep it safe, you know what you're doing, you know what's going to happen, just think this one out coolly, calmly, and the situation will resolve itself. It won't be easy, but it will resolve itself... My man._

He felt more and more anxious and perturbed with each passing second. The more time passed, the sooner death would be upon him. Sooner it'd be upon _them_. He already knew that at least a couple of his ex-classmates had succumbed to the grim reaper, considering how multiple gun shots have been fired all throughout the just-after midnight air, at sporadic intervals. Directly outside of the bunker as things would have it. The bunker was the only thing keeping him from meeting a violent death, that he held on to deeply, yet he still knew his time was coming.

Squawking out one last time, Julia called out to the boy, "All right, that leaves you, Boy Number Ten, Spencer Ryan as the last one out. I know you may think you're out of luck, but, well, maybe you are. Have a nice day!"

"Well fuck you then!" He muttered acrimoniously yet also inaudibly. For the last time, a teenager got up from out of their assigned seat to hear Horatio's strangely soothing and effeminate voice one last time. Wanting to show respect in the face of another human being, Spencer turned to face the young private.

"Good luck, Spencer." He calmly said. There was a definite layer of melancholy underneath the softness of his tone; it may have actually contributed to it. The track-star definitely could admit surprise to bearing witness to a government server who looked about as forlorn and dejected as many of the other students who's fates he helped condemn them to. He opened his mouth again as though he wanted to say something else, but got rid of the idea and shut his lips closed… whatever sentiment he had planned on saying to the 50th student in the bunker would be forever lost. Not that Spencer would dwell on it for long.

He turned away from the PFC and picked up a jog. Wiping a tear from his eye, Spencer tried to relish his last moments of guaranteed safety. _Guaranteed safety, yeah right, my ass._ Looking about the room he found it to be nothing more than a menagerie of pain and suffering. Scratch marks adorning the aged chalkboard, ferruginous bullet holes that appeared to be decades old, and the TV/ VCR setup was a reminder of what human atrocity and depravity he had bared witness to just a mere hour and a half ago. A part of the boy wanted to remain present in the sullied room of misery, assimilate to it. Knowing that what had been witnessed in this space would be nothing compared to the hell just outside. There was no way in fuck this could even be in the same ballpark as the shit-storm out in the actual island. But in the end his survival instinct won out. He mechanically caught his duffel bag as it was thrown to him.

Starting off in a soft jog towards the bright white light that was the exit, Spencer Ryan or Boy Number 10 to the gamblers in the outside world; entered the future filled with uncertain fear.

With the 49 other remaining contestants alive and rambling about the island, the results and events to come were as predictable as the lottery. For some, the game would bring horrors formed from the deepest depths of hell; for others, it would offer them peace in their final moments. For one contestant, it would be their escalation to international fame and untold riches. Whatever the case would be, one thing was perfectly clear to all of them.

The game had begun.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, all of the orientation stuff is concluded, and all the contestants are released. Which means** **that the format of the story will change with more introductions to characters/conflicts and all around more action. In the meantime however, i encourage reviews and such, constructive criticism and direct statements alike. What do you think of the characters so far? Anything i could improve on? Please let me know, thanks. ****I'm going to try to give each and every one of the students a bit of time for character development before they are… eliminated. But I can assure you; the killings will vamp up in time, trust me.**


	8. Hour 2: 49 Contestants Remaining

Mickey Chiang, a.k.a. Boy #4 could hear noises. Definitely other people by the sounds of it, had to be, nature didn't make such such noises. The hairs on the back of his neck would stand up, his breaths became shallow and tacit, and his heart would race. The unknown entities would run by every so often and he would hide his best and wait, nothing more, nothing less, hoping his best to elude notice. He had a decent enough weapon, a fireman's axe. He could have taken them on if he felt inclined to. However, more than anything else he was just scared out of his wits. If he had more skewed morals and less empathy (and maybe more impulse), he probably could've taken them down for the count and looted their bags and maybe even become one of the MVP's of the game. But given his personal conundrums, it seemed quite impossible.

He was pretty impressive physically. Pretty tall, muscular but not overly so, more lean than anything else. Years of lacrosse tied with the Cold Rivers Titans had blessed him with a powerful form with defined muscles that had certainly given him an edge with women. Not that looking good would really be of any use in the jungle, but at least it wasn't a bad thing, right? Nevertheless, he knew he didn't have the nerve for a one on one confrontation; an axe was such a primitive weapon. Compared to all the hand cannons that everyone else was sure to have, he knew he couldn't just lumber the friggin thing around; he'd either have to get into close quarters or get lucky enough to find another person and take their gun.

By all means he should've been a figure to be reckoned with on the island, yet another variable that made him about as vulnerable as anyone else was not only that he was terrified, he was also terrified, of blood. Yeah it's a clichéd phobia, but it was one that he was plagued with since the day in fourth grade where he broke his nose after soccer practice by slamming into a goalie post face first. His nose bled so profusely and so perennially… it just. Wouldn't. STOP!

Ever since then, anything over an inkling of blood would scare the hell out of the Chinese honor student (that was partially the reason why he had wandered so far away from the bunker and was now roaming around in a trailer park in the islands far southern half, once he caught sight of David Langston's mutilated corpse just on the outside, he took off like a speeding train in the opposite direction). So in retrospective, he was as good as dead.

Some time earlier, his phone had buzzed like clockwork, and upon checking the LCD display realized that Anthony (Boy #19) was trying to call him. At first he considered answering and trying to connect with him and the rest of the gang they belonged to, but with all things considered, realized that Walter would likely backstab all of them down the line (maybe even right away) or sweep across the island like a disease; and that was something the boy would've really liked to avoid. Anthony could take care of himself anyways, he was damaged goods as far as Mickey was concerned. Besides, aside from the strength in numbers mentality and excess income earned outside of the game due to illegal enterprises, there really were no benefits to being with a crowd like that… especially in a situation of this magnitude.

Looking away, he spotted some graffiti scrawled onto a wooden telephone pole by some unnameable RV that beared no weight in the grand scheme of things, one that had likely been decommissioned already if Julia's instructions were any indication. Looking to investigate, Mickey could clearly see that song lyrics were written in black sharpie on the aged wood, likely an untold amount of years old.

_Y__ou say you got a real solution well, you know We'd all love to see the plan_. The inscribed writing read.

That was always one of Mickey's favorite song from the Fab Four. His mind began to play the track as the lyrics seemingly sprung to life. Those remnants of the past suddenly came back to him and reminded him of his now robbed future.

Not but twenty-four hours before (in terms his actual consciousness, chronologically it had been almost a week since he was in Cold Rivers), all that he had been worrying about choosing between the dorms of Stanford or paying rent in a loft offsite. That was his biggest worry. The straight A's to maintain in college, that was his biggest worry. Lacrosse, being an enforcer for Walter, being the brains of the posse, getting laid. That _was_ his biggest worry.

_Now_ he was worrying about whether or not he'd be dead in the next five minutes from a sharpshooter he couldn't even see.

_Now_ he was trying to get back his bearings and formulate a strategy… having an introspective filled with things he would never see again was no good, even he knew that. Yet while it was an inevitability that his time would come soon, he wanted to at the very least prolong his life for maximum span time. Who knows… maybe he'd be able to pull a Craig Pitchford (Winner of the 2003 Ohio game) and wait until only one contestant remained… and then strike when least expected and pull off a clutch!

Sure he was almost universally despised for pulling such cheap tactics, and he was armed with a hunting rifle, and it was an incredibly cowardly way to go about living the program, but shit. Mickey was never known for his nobility… he wanted to live Goddamn it! A living pussy is much better than being a fallen hero in his opinion (not that this game ever spawned heroes). This was no first person shooter where one would be chastised relentlessly for "camping"; no this was life or death! Do or die! So like it or not… Mickey may or may not be willing to kill cleanly if pushed in a corner… he surely wouldn't enjoy it, and it may just drive him to insanity. But he felt like he was already fucked in the head enough already, shit like this does that to people.

Out of everything he wanted right now, a friend (aside from his gang there weren't all that many people that he knew in here with him, that could be both fortunate or unfortunate depending on how you look at it), a gun, safety, a way out. While all of those things would have been greatly to his liking… he knew that all of the emotional comfort and solace could first be found with shelter, it all stemmed from warmth and security. Out here in the fields was where death would soon come to harvest their souls like a master gardener… and he would make sure to reap what he sows! But in a fortifiable structure, at least the Asian would be able to take preventative measures against intruders. And possibly go down the road of Mr. Pitchford.

Down the line he knew if things came to that it wouldn't be pleasant for him, but on the other hand, it was a damn good plan! _If I can fuckin make it that far!_

But pertaining to the subject of shelter, he needed to find one. The trailer park he was currently exploring seemed like a foolproof hiding ground. Multiple structures, all look-alike, and none of them were well lit from the outside. Why you'd have to be the most unlucky mofo around to be caught in one of those. Hunters and people as a whole are generally attracted to things that stick out, the more conspicuous something is, the more likely it will attract (unwanted or otherwise) attention. So by that logic, that would mean he should be safe, for the time being.

So deciding to put his dialectical thoughts into application, he stopped droning forward, shaking his head back and forth to bring himself back into the basis of reality and whirred around to face the nearest trailer to his right. He saw one of the cookie-cutter mobile homes. About as identical as the others, so he figured. A bland color of bright yellow with hints of ferruginous rust eroding from the corners of the quasi-vehicle. Seeing nothing wrong with entering a shack that was designed as similarly as everything else that no one could even decide where to go or how to distinguish one from another, and after a moment of deliberation, he entered through the rickety fly-net door.

Had he known of the mess he was about to get himself into, he probably would have just kept on walking forward and ignored the seemingly vapid redneck-esque abode. Yet instead, he made his biggest mistake yet and stepped in.

* * *

In marine biology, a perfect example of a mutual symbiotic relationship was the clownfish. You know, the same kind from Finding Nemo? Clownfish fed on small invertebrates that otherwise would have the potential to harm a sea anemone internally, and the excretions from the clownfish would provide nutrients to the sea anemone. The clownfish was additionally protected from predators by the anemone's stinging cells, to which the clownfish is immune to said cells. Now, how did this have any relevance to anyone within the Battle Royale?

While symbiosis was not a word that Pamela Ridley, a.k.a. Girl #18, could even pronounce let alone know what it was. She certainly knew the concept better firsthand than any marine biologist. There were some back at Cold Rivers High who looked at them oddly, there were many that questioned their sexuality; referring them both to LGBT club meetings. But in the end they were just really close friends.

And now that Lily Marsh, a.k.a. Girl #4, was gone, Pamela had absolutely no idea what she was going to do with herself. They were best friends through and through, being separated from Lily felt like the hardest thing she ever had to do. In a situation that she didn't know or understand, the familiar comfort of Lily felt like the only solution to this mess, and being deprived of that for so long tended to do some nasty things to her psychosis. For a while she had cried, but eventually her sobbing was so flagrant and incessant it started to physically hurt, so she tried to stop. It wasn't easy.

For all intents and purposes, Pamela shouldn't have had a hard time fitting in with the upper echelon's of high school. And she didn't. With neatly braided silver (died) hair, a gorgeous, slender face and good figure, she could have fallen into pretty much any of the popular circles with ease for purely cosmetic reasons on one hand, she was popular for her enticing aesthetics and conforming reputation, she really didn't have the social nuances or affluence to really bolster her status as one of the popular girls. To truly drive it home. As it was, she had made it onto the cheerleading squad successfully and had a large group of people she knew she could call "friends". _But they're not really your friends. They say they are, but we all know they aren't. Only friends with you because of Lily, she gets things done.  
_

Since her release, she had attempted to call Lily multiple times. For whatever reason however, she simply refused to pick up. Whether her phone was dead, turned off, misplaced…or worse… Pamela was simply forlorn on not being able to contact her biggest bestie.

If only Lily was there to counsel her. It hadn't been easy being by herself back in school, let alone in a Battle Royale. If all those years of isolation taught her anything, it was that being alone opened her up to attacks. Back there, in here, what difference did it make? Out there, preppy, stuck-up bitches would relentlessly deride her for now wearing this, or eating that. Degrading her for her figure, her intellect, family, everything seemingly that could be made fun of was. Those girls who were in cliques, those other girls who flitted about in pairs, they went after her like a dog to prime rib, without provocation they would metaphorically maul her and not until she found a friend was she able to bite back. And now she worried that those same groups were inevitably going to pounce on her now like they did then, only this time, it was life and death. The social cliques turned into teams of vigilante warriors. They would be the ones to swoop down and ravage the loners like her, or even Lily. But if they got together again, what were the odds that would happen? far less as Pamela liked to think.

Lily was the one who pretty much took Pamela under her wing and taught her how to use their appealing looks to their benefit. While Lily understood how the world worked and that eye candy was the sweetest kind, Pamela merely followed her instruction to a near totemistic servitude. It was Lily that helped her be strong and got her to understand the reality of the world. She'd realized how powerful beauty was and how they could use it to gather a following of friends outside of each other. She'd been the one who suggested they use their beauty to become cheerleaders, and she was the one who always managed to get them into social situations. Every time Pamela would agree with what Lily had planned because she would never deny Lily anything.

And now she was gone. She was somewhere on this godforsaken island, probably scared out of her mind, just as unarmed as Pamela, and there was no way that they could get in contact with each other. Lily didn't have access to her cell phone for one reason or another, and hers was beginning to creep into the danger zone of low battery. G_o search. Go from door to door if you have to. Lily's gotta be somewhere, right? She can't be dead. She knows what she's doing, she's got the smarts. You just gotta keep looking for her however you can. We can team up, maybe she has a gun… or anything better that what you got._

Indeed, Pamela was armed with only a police baton to her name; swift, durable and could indeed crack a persons skull wide open if enough force was put behind a strike, but Pamela wasn't strong. She was a weakling and she knew it, it's not like she was a SWAT officer or a member of the SPD or something like that. She wasn't rough material like that. Things just weren't fucking fair.

"It's not fair!" she practically shrieked. Waddling through the vast and nebulous territory of the forests surrounding Hillsborough, Pamela could feel only nothing but the effects of isolation, and tremendous fear; gloom and doom. Not having the security of a gun or even a blade certainly exacerbated her fears, when everyone else had cannons, sticks, and dynamite. Only having a tonfa didn't even hold a candle up to those kinds of weapons. Really her only incentive for carrying forward…or even living at this point was because of Lily Marsh.

_I can't let it end like this, I can't die alone…I WILL find you Lily, even if it's the last thing I do._

With a renewed sense of motivation, she swiped out the map hanging from her pouch necklace and read with purpose. She was never the best with navigation or topography (truth of the matter was she didn't even know what topography meant), yet she was still logical enough to guess the general area she was wandering around in, I.E. If she had wandered in this direction for this amount of time, chances are she would be…

_Well, the closest really notable building outside of this section of the woods is the Zen Hotel. I guess that's where I'm gonna go first, don't worry Lily, I'm coming… I'll search every freakin building on this whole damn island if I have to in order to find you! I promise!_

She pushed her thin prescription-lensed glasses into place and wrinkled her nose.

Swinging her pack over her shoulder and rolling her map like a scroll into her respective bag; Pamela prepared to make the journey to the first of many building inspections, starting with an innocuous looking wood cabin.

* * *

Joel Hellmuth, a.k.a. Boy # 14, had had an especially hard time upon being released. Being a major coward and never being in a fight his entire life; if getting his ass kicked by _Flora Sharpe _freshman year was any implication, he was also a virtual string bean of a boy. Additionally, there was the whole issue regarding how he had an anal evacuation back in the classroom. Not only was he terrified, but he was covered in his own shit and waddling into the game like a baby with a messy diaper.

Fortunately for Joel, due to his rather early release and his penchant for hiding and avoiding danger, not only had he not encountered any of the psychos or hunters of the game, he had managed to make his way all the way down to the trailer parks located in the islands lower southern half. Thankfully a distance that almost no other contestant has traveled yet so far. The particular trailer he located wasn't the nicest of places, but it was poorly lit from the outside and warm, two qualities that gave it a great appeal.

Another exceptional bit of fortune for him was that most of the houses and mobile houses were still well stocked with clothing; some of it even more thankfully was rather warm. He had washed up and found a new pair of underwear in one of the many mobile homes in the trailer park and things were beginning to look about as up as they could in something as horrible as this. He was still scared out of his mind, but at least it was better than being scared shitless.

However, that's where his luck ended. He was in a prime location for hiding and waiting, yet in the off chance that a person was to invade his personal space. He was almost comically unarmed, his assigned weapon? Now, he knew things would be random, and he had about as much of a chance as anyone as getting something good or bad. But at least he'd initially thought he'd get something that'd help counter his physical inabilities. That said, he got a VHS tape, you know, the old-fashioned kind that had long been abandoned in favor of DVDs and Blu-rays. Yeah. That kind. Definitely not anything that could waver away an assailant, the luck of the draw was not on his side at all, and to that Joel almost wanted cry, or chuckle at his own abysmally poor odds.

To him it was almost fate at how unfairly things had been made for him, not only was he one of the physically weakest contestants in the game with a frail frame and popsicle stick arms, he was also assigned one of the worst weapons in the game just as the cherry on the shit sundae! He was made to be helpless! He was made to be a sitting duck! Destiny really decided to shit on his chances, huh? Goddamn conspiracy is what it is! Social Darwinism could be another distinct possibility.

To further add insult to injury, there was literally nothing even special about the tape, it was a blank. It hardly mattered though, unless the contents of the cassette were "Locations of every hidden gun in the game" or "How to escape a Battle Royale", it really would have been trivial whatever was on the videotape. Of course at least if it was a copy of Apocalypse Now or The Big Lebowski or some other classic film along those lines, it would've been a decent way to kill some time, should he have any time to kill, before he was killed, that was.

That aside, Joel's current agenda consisted of sitting quite comfortably drinking a cup of coffee in a nondescript trailer on the east end of "Hillsborough Campers" and trying to think of what to do next. He was lounging on a vintage sofa bed and torpidly staring at an aged TV that only had snow as its projected outlet. Ever since the television broadcast signal went digital and adopted satellite dishes and cable-hook ups, black and white static was the only channel that was ever on any of the antenna-rigged televisions that were now widely considered to be obsolete, at least at this RV park.

He was idly staring into the incoherent mish-mash of random conglomerated black and white pixels, it was so mindless yet oddly comforting. It was insipid and mind-numbing enough where it was actually beginning to lull him into a state of relaxation… he was staring into space and his vision was unfocused, but it was an unconventional way to dull the senses; it was almost hypnotic.

Setting the mug on the oak coffee table in front of him. He whirred his legs around and rested them on one of the sofa's arms and went from sitting upright to lying in a suitable resting position, his duffel bag just beside him at the legs of the low table. It would've probably been more apposite to find a more apt loft to crash in if this one was so destitute, however the skinny boy still didn't have the courage to venture off somewhere else, this place would be good enough. It would _have_ to be.

He was still a little bit frustrated at how fruitless the place had been, but he still felt he should be grateful that it was a cozy camper. He figured it would at least be a safe pad to crash in until… his head was blown off. _God damn it man_.

Deciding it wasn't best to panic on such a gloomy contingency, his mind then drifted elsewhere. His thoughts went on a tangent towards his colleagues. Friend and foe alike, he had his contestant roster in his hands and he was idly twiddling the printer paper with his fingers. _Heh, Times New Roman, nice! Better than fuckin Comic Sans! _

_Girl number one, Brianna Hughes. Heh, she would've been the first girl released if we were elected last year, instead she was I believe the thirty-third person to be released… if my judgment is correct… what, first it was Abigail, then David who got whacked right away. Then that shy girl Flora who beat me who should've been dead, yet no other body other than what I presume to be David… guy was an assface… not to say he truly deserved death. But I hold my sympathy for others more deserving. Then Toby, Derpy, that loudmouth jackass Logan… can't believe he stole her from me… _

He sighed dejectedly at the internal reminder of the love he lost.

Logan. Logan, Motherfucking. Heffley. The Name he would forever curse. Now it wasn't that he completely despised everything about him. Just the fact that he had been trying to facilitate a girlfriend boyfriend relationship with Brianna since they were in 6th grade just for Logan to come and destroy years worth of progress in a slew of fervent political banter and slick, dollar-store charm! It was things like that that brought the boys blood to a boil and made his face green with envy. Joel knew the girl since kindergarten, back when they were still in diapers.

At the urging of Joel, Brianna had eventually found her niche within the scholastic grapevine as working on the school paper. After displaying much diligence, charisma, and effort spent, Brianna eventually found her way to the lead editor and made many managerial decisions that caused most who worked with her to adore her, and Joel started it all. She thanked him for giving her the confidence to do what she normally wouldn't have done, and their affection grew even stronger.

…That all seemed in vain it seemed when Logan showed up. Logan wanted something to do about grievances, and to get something of his published onto the news rag. While Joel had stuck with her since they were toddlers, he just had to ramble on about his political ideology while pushing up his prescription glasses and lo and behold, they're a couple… What kind of semblance of equality is that?!

_To think that all the way back in middle school she was so beautiful. Meek, yet still so gorgeous and right when you think you may be getting somewhere, fate decides to not only fuck you up the ass by taking all of that away from you in the form of an obnoxious douchebag like Logan. It also decides to clean house by taking away your lives in the most fucked up kind of lottery imaginable!_

He didn't hold any illusions that he was going to come out of this at all, or even seriously injured, he knew he was going to die on this island. Unfortunately for him though, the time, place, and method of execution was as nebulous as the worst fogs of Seattle during the harshest of winters.

_God I can't believe I'm going to die in three days or less… I haven't done anything with my life and have so much to see and feel. How can things be this unfair? How? _At this point he let the leaflet in his hands fall onto the carpeted floor as he threw his head back and let out a miserable groan.

"No," the boy said aloud as he tried to fight back the tears, "No, nothing is set. Not yet, I can do this, I can survive."

Just as he was beginning to pull himself together however, an aberrant squeaking emitted from the RV's entryway.

He heard the trailer's screen door portentously creak open. Was that just the wind? Please tell me that that was just the wind.

That notion was instantly dissuaded as the lanky boy heard an unnatural series of human like wheezing and grunting. _Fuck._ His eyes were now glued on the large figure that pushed his way in through the bug-netted entrance.

It was a guy, and a big one as well. The lights were on, which permitted Joel to identify who the incomer was. Asides from being quite buff in stature, he was an Asian teen, Probably Chinese judging by the pigment of his skin and shape of his nose. Joel vaguely recognized the kid as one of Walter's cronies. Yeah, the odd one out who had exemplary grades and was set to some pretentious cock-sucking college or university. Wasn't quite as bad a delinquent as the others, but he still hung out with the bad crowd which made him seem just as dangerous. All of those details seemed to fade away into nothing more than trivial knowledge at the sight of the large fire axe in his hands. Why in a matter of seconds the scrawny boy knew he would be chopped in half like a withered tree. _How uneven is this shit? This is like damn David and Goliath!_

An unemployed part of his mind made him wary of the fact that he was now standing up.

"Holy shit." He squeaked out of fear.

At that shriek the larger boy jerked over in surprise and wildly locked eyes with Joel. Mickey Chiang was now in a heated stare with Hellmuth. It was a perennial gaze, as both males looked on with equal increments of dread and terror for the scuffle that was about to occur. Hellmuth continued to look on with fear in his eyes while Mickey tried his best (which still wasn't very much) to look tough, His hands gripping tightly around the wooden shaft of the axe, so much so that droplets of moisture from his sweaty palms were beginning to dilute into the material. _Okay Mickey, this isn't going to be fun, or clean most likely. But make it quick for the boy… do it fast… I can't die now. Take him out before he takes you out! Yeah, that's the ticket!  
_

He was not aware that Joel had no intentions to play, nor did he realize that he had no weapon capable of any real harm to anyone. Instead he mentally psyched himself up for the grisly task at hand.

Ultimately it was Chiang who made the first move by screaming like a banshee and then charging at Joel like a rhinoceros, axe held over his head. Joel more or less sprang into action, while he was nowhere near the one of the games most formidable threats physically; he was fueled by adrenaline and the will to live.

For Hellmuth, everything seemed to slow down, his eyes seemed to have intense focus to them and his senses were on overdrive. Everything just felt, surreal. In actual time he narrowly managed to sidestep an axe swing that was intended to split his skull in half. Mickey was left bent over attempting to recover from such a heavy strike.

Joel wanted to flee, he was no fighter, but running was something he had been long acquainted with. But he ran the risk of getting chopped by Mickey if he did try going near the door, so instead he tried backing away, reaching blindly for anything he could use to defend himself with. As Mickey wheeled around with the axe, now ready to cut down the other boy, he was quite surprised to have gotten struck in the face by a plastic rectangle. The VHS tape Joel received as a weapon served some sort of purpose, a desperate attempt on Joel's end to actually take down his assailant, also pissing off Mickey even more with an agitating amount of pain.

"What the fuck?" Mickey blurted out, temporarily taken aback. Joel didn't respond, too scared and out of focus to care about a witty comeback, though he did have enough sound of mind to try to reach for something else to hurl at the burly Chinese boy.

Given that course of action, Mickey realized what was going on and he made for Joel again. As he closed the distance between him and the wiry boy, he lashed out with the axe again, once more missing Hellmuth but instead taking out a sizable chunk out of the countertop Joel was at a second ago; wooden splinters flying every which way as Joel fled away with a large red can of Folgers coffee mix in his hands.

Mickey then tried getting Joel again, and again, and again. Each time missing and only accomplishing the cleaving of innocent, yet inane pieces of furnishings and other irrelevant things within the trailer home. Mickey was beginning to get more and more pissed. _Kid's barely got enough strength in him to pull this off, gotta make this a mercy killing now don'tcha?_ _If you kill him, you are one step closer my friend..._

Mickey only now felt the slightest hint of foreboding at how quickly the other boy moved. His face told fear, but his movements said something else. He was sloppy, but seemingly for an ulterior reason (_and not once did he let go of that coffee can_). Was he actually...developing a sense of rhythm for his attacks? _Bah, you're overthinking things too much, just follow through and go in for the kill..._

Mickey once more charged with the axe, this time it had to be a sure thing...Not the case as Joel correspondingly lashed out with the can's lid unscrewed, splashing out a fine cloud of brown powder into Mickey's face, perfectly nailing Mickey in his eyes as he blindingly cried out in pain and a sight disability. With Mickey too busy trying to wipe out the classic roast flavored insta-coffee out of his eye sockets, he couldn't hold onto the clunky axe any longer as it lackadaisically fell to the ground, the feelings in his arms, legs, nothing was as important as the searing sensation in his eyes.

Joel threw away the can and shakily picked the axe up from the ground. It was bulky and nowhere near something a boy as frail as him could wield confidently. But at least now that Mickey had no weapon, and he did. Mickey wouldn't be all that much of a threat and both of their lives could be spared.

Building up as much bravado as he could muster, Joel spoke in a shaky voice.

"You want to think that again? You don't even have a weapon now, still think you can take me down?" He asked, trying his best to sound hardy but not particularly succeeding.

"Fuck you," Mickey spat out with bleary eyes lined with thick brown dust as he prepared to strike again. He could dimly see Joel's outline, and that was enough of an incentive for Mickey to go on the offensive again. Anybody playing by a more conservative strategy would probably have ran away and hoped for better luck next time, but not him. He had already invested too much into this, and for him to lose his weapon and only chance in the game to _Joel Hellmuth_ of all people… Not a fucking chance. _No room for errors, just take the little fucker out, knock him out and take care of the rest later._

Mickey was on the offensive as he rushed at Joel, to most people that would have been an audacious yet asinine move. But Chiang knew that Joel could barely support the weapons' weight with both hands, let alone take him out with one powerful swing. He had all the leverage he needed.

His rush went off exactly as planned, He was able to advance his knee into Joel's gut without the danger of being butchered by the purloined axe. With the wind knocked out of the smaller boy, Mickey followed suit by delivering a sharp blow to the side of Joel's bony head, causing the skinny boy's world to fill with pink stars for nary a second. Joel shook his head to bring things back into picture only to see Mickey's palm rapidly press forward until Joel's face exploded with pain, causing him to fall to the ground with ease and finally release the coveted axe.

Seeing Joel and the axe separated on the ground, the boy deftly cradled the ax in both of his powerful hands. Feeling the raw energy that such a primitive but lethal weapon that only the finest of men could wield. _It's motherfucking Master Sword! Well… maybe that's a hyperbole, but never mind that. Time to end this!_

Mickey no longer felt fear (though he still felt great pain in his eyes, not quite the sensation of them crawling out their sockets as with earlier, but still fervent nevertheless), it all relinquished and in it's place a feral madness took the reigns. He approached the downed gaunt and was about ready to deal the deathblow._ Okay, make this quick and don't hesitate this time! You've got this!_

Mickey lifted the axe high above his head like an executioner and was about to bring it down with enough momentum to chop Joel's wiry body like a piece of lumber when he did something that Mickey could not have seen coming. It may have been blind luck that his spasms had accomplished something apposite, or Joel may have had enough clarity of mind to deal a precise blow. What was clear though was that Joel had successfully landed a perfect kick straight to Mickey's groin, causing him to stumble back while howling in pain. He predictably cradled his bruised nether regions as he rapidly fired obscenities in great pain.

He expectedly fell to the carpet, weakly clutching his nether regions with the axe no longer his priorty. Joel knew he could've just seized it and finished him off, or ran away with it and hoped he wouldn't catch up. But it was too messy, there was also the chance that if he got in too close that Mickey could pull a fast one and launch a sneak attack. Too many risks and variables to consider. Joel looked around for something that could make this unpleasant duty easier; he didn't have to look very far. Throughout this whole fight, he paid no attention to the television that was perennially on. It was so trivial and really didn't deserve any heed (though it did provide some extra lighting in this ghetto pad). But now an idea had sprung up in his head, a way to finish this once and for all.

Joel flashbacked to freshman year when he, Brianna, Vikram, and (unfortunately for Joel) Logan all got together at the latter's house to watch a horror movie marathon for Halloween. There were howls of both fright and laughter as the prime examples of horror cinema clichés popped up again and again, from the seemingly dead antagonist rising up after the orgiastic (_well,_ _orgiastic may not have been how most would've described it_) climax, or how the teenagers would always decide to take refuge in the worst and least apposite locations imaginable. Candy and soda was spewed and strewn all about Logan's carpet and living room sofa from the wild movement of the punch drunk teenagers. Nevertheless, one of Joel's favorite scenes out of the assortment of flicks that were shown that night was from Wes Craven's, "Scream"; A true masterpiece and nearly flawless spoof of the entire horror genre if Hellmuth could say so himself. Joel thought back to the fight between Sidney Prescott and Stu Macher...

He jogged past the downed Mickey and got behind the audio/video setup and pushed with all of his might, it was a heavy and bulky thing for the gaunt boy, but the expected effect still happened. It flew straight off of its perch. As Mickey began to collect himself, he only had the briefest glimpses of a glass screen rapidly approaching him before it entirely blinded him.

The television had fallen directly on Mickey's face, causing a triple whammy for the unlucky Asian. The broken glass from the screen tore his face to shreds, he suffered a skull fracture from the sheer weight of the bulky and obsolete TV landing full force on his head, and he received a fatal dose of electric shock from the disconnected wires and circuits frying his heart. His body jerked and contorted like an epileptic at a rave as the electrical current ravenously flowed through his body, causing sheer, unmitigated agony for the Chinese boy. He screamed in horror and tremendous pain until his vocal chords became as overheated as his heart. It just came out the ungodly roar of a dying man, his death rattle. It soon was lost in a composition of sizzling flesh and loose electricity whizzing and tiddling.

His arms and legs were flailing, his hands reaching for the life that was rapidly leaving him. After about ten seconds of living hell, and the last of his life forces having left him; the boy's body went limp and his world faded into blackness even darker than the inside of the idiot box. An unnoticed camera tucked in a ceiling corner of the trailer zoomed in to capture the final stages of his death throes.

Mickey Chiang, a.k.a. Boy#4 had officially fallen as the second casualty of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. Of course, it was nothing compared to some of the deaths that were soon to come, but for the moment, a great part of the viewing audience reveled (not so much those who had been betting on the teenage delinquent and honors student, since he had gone out so soon he could barely die any earlier). As for what Joel felt… he didn't really feel much of anything, or at least anything he could properly identify.

Guilt? Well yes, that was present, but it wasn't the primary emotion he was going through, or even a vague description.

Sadness? True he had just watched someone die, but no one he even knew very well asides from the name. Besides, he had tried to _kill you_.

Fear? That as well was somewhere in Joel's current conscious. The fact that he had committed what he considered to be the most depraved act humans were capable of. He had just robbed a life. A life that had dreams and aspirations (_Wasn't this the kid that was going to Stanford?_), emotions and senses just like himself, a life that will be dearly missed by friends and loved ones… But still no, that wasn't it.

Excitement? Okay, even this Joel couldn't deny, it was exhilarating. The thrill of the rush, the fact his life was on the line and he had successfully secured it for now. It had felt so stimulating; his circuits were overloaded with bravado and adrenaline. Yet…now, he couldn't help but feel his high was coming down.

In summary, he didn't know what he felt. He was not aware of the time that had passed since the battles orgiastic conclusion, but eventually an idle part of his mind told him it wasn't best to stick around. And even though his thoughts weren't coherent, his actions were. He gathered his things that were set on top of the coffee table he had been resting his feet on a mere three minutes ago, as well as the fire axe from the fallen Mickey. It wasn't exactly grave robbing, but it sure felt like it.

It was clunky and rather uncomfortable to wield, but it was a whole lot more of a defense than the videocassette he was assigned.

Getting the last of his things in order, Joel Hellmuth a.k.a. Boy#14 left his previous, but now intruded and desecrated shelter in search of a new one, he walked out with (figuratively) a dark cloud looming over his head, into the night, set for an uncertain future. The depravity of the act he just committed weighing heavily on his mind.


	9. Hour 3: 48 Contestants Remaining

The girl was exhausted. _Running for a full consecutive hour will well do that to you I suppose, who've thunk that? _True her calves and most of the entirety of her lower extremities felt like they were engulfed in flames, as the immense amount of lactic acid secreted by her leg muscles built up from such extreme physical exertion had taken it's toll. She felt like she was drowning, her lungs were burning so bad, bending over to take a spit take made it feel like she was coughing up string cheese. It felt like she was dying, but if running was what kept her alive, then by god she would've done it.

She was all in all a complete mess; tears were gratuitously streaming down her face as well as mucus pitifully running down her nose from her earlier spree of powerful blubbering. Her face was as red as a tomato and searing hot. She wiped her nose on the magenta hoodie she was dressed in when she woke up (also what she happened to be wearing when she was on the bus). There might've been some who would have simply succumbed to the game, losing sight of their better judgment and committing suicide, but she would never do that. The thought had certainly crossed her mind during the earliest moments of the game, but logically there was no way she'd give in like that, taking the cowards way out. Suicide was unthinkable, wouldn't happen in the real world and that principle upholds in here.

Though if she had decided to commit suicide, it would've been quite a quick and most likely painless endeavor. She had the luck of the draw to have been assigned a gun that came with a holster and a belt for all of the clips; a CZ-75 semi-automatic pistol according to the manual that came with it. She hadn't fully read it yet and had only skimmed through the pages for a vague idea of how to use her gun, but with some time and practice she was confident she could become a decent enough gunslinger. Like an Uma Thurman of sorts. The gun would certainly play a crucial role if she decided to... play the game, if that was the proper vernacular.

The truth of the matter was that she never would've feasibly ran this long, or hard at one given time if it hadn't been for one measly complication, and that complication had a name and a gender.

That complication was Walter Peterson, a.k.a. Boy #3.

They were involved before the game, less of a relationship and more of a meaningless fling really. It really was just pointless sex before the game (with the arbitrary label of relationship), and would be even less substantial in it. The girl honestly believed she wouldn't have any scruples with putting a bullet or two in Walter's head, but if there was one thing she knew about Walter, it was that he was violent. That was one of the things that, looking back on it, confused the everlasting fuck out of her as to why she had decided to hook up with him (_asides from the free booze mind you_); as a human being Walter was certainly not a quality one. He was an all around asshole; almost never taking the peaceful route to solving something, and instead almost always resorting to violence as a solution to most situations. That coupled with the fact that he had connections to some of the worst criminals and most fractious delinquents in the entire town was enough to get most people out of his way.

Beryl didn't think for a second it would be easy to take him down. He was strong, even more so if he was equipped with a gun, a knife, or even a large piece of wood. Hell, he could easily wind up surviving until the end with a halfway decent weapon. Sure, she had a gun, but no way did she think that meant automatically she was going to win in a fair fight against him; keyword here being fair. He probably wouldn't see it coming if she tried to blast him out of the blue, right? Then again, if her plan was botched in anyway she would be totally boned, maybe she would need to revise her strategy.

Back to her complication, the reason she was so flustered and out of breath was because of a text message she received on her cell phone which the monitors of the game were nice enough to let her keep. It was from Walter of course, and basically ordered her to meet him at "Taco Bueno". A defunct fast food restaurant that was located only half a mile south from the starting bunker. Now, that wouldn't have been such a problem if it hadn't been for the fact that the girl had ran ever since her induction into the game, she had wandered aimlessly West for god knows how long until she settled upon a homely wooden cabin somewhere in the islands northwest quadrant. It was quite a comfortable little abode, until her phone brought her out of her peace of mind and peremptorily made her leave her sanctuary.

Now here she was trying to catch her breath, looking like a pitiful fucking mess, and leaning against a dingy dumpster behind the restaurant's main kitchen. Just great. _Fuck you very much Walter!_

Still, seeing no other option she had contacted him. It wasn't that she couldn't strike out on her own, hell, she had a gun, and besides she had no way of knowing that he had a gun of his own and was planning on killing her outright. In spite of all that, she still decided to go and find him simply out of a lack of direction. She didn't have much of an idea about what to do in the game, well, she was going to play to win, yes, but she didn't know how to start doing that. Walter would know. She had few doubts that Walter would not set off to kill, she knew that much about him intrinsically for being his F-Buddy. She just had to be careful. If Walter kept her around, it would be all too easy to bushwhack him somewhere down the line. If he wanted to kill her, then she had her gun ready. She had it loaded, the hammer primed, slide cocked, she had everything ready. Now all she had to do was play the waiting game…

She brought up her pistol and held it out in front of her. _Pull the trigger and the bullet whizzes through the air into somebody's head, right? Man, this is the shit that should be taught in scho-  
_

"Hey Berry, how's it hangin'?" asked a deep voice that was unmistakably Walter's.

Beryl "Berry" Puckett a.k.a. Girl #19 jerked around in total surprise, looking around as the dark boy emerged animatedly from the fast food restaurants' glass door, ducking out of the way of percolating neon light. For a moment Beryl that Walter advanced at her with a killing intent, moving with surprising speed like some kind of demon. Beryl receded, and almost drew out her gun, but before she could, Walter held out two similar looking items in front of him before speaking.

"Want one?" he asked roughly while extending his hand to her. As it turned out, he had two cheap looking tacos, one considerably more well-garnished with toppings than the other. Beryl blinked in surprise, almost not positive if this was really real. Or if it was poisoned..._nah, Walter isn't smart enough to think that far ahead, is he?_

Beryl took the taco from him with a cursory smile and sniffed it cautiously, and almost as if Walter read her mind, he sighed.

"And no, i didn't poison it, thank you very much." Walter said irritably. "Waited so long for your hot ass to get here that i made myself some lunch. I didn't put anything in it i wouldn't have in mine, except for pico de gallo."

Beryl nodded with a sheepish smile before taking a bite, it tasted normal as you'd expect, quite delicious, even. There was still the off-chance that Walter was still fibbing, but Beryl figured since he knew that she was suspecting such, bringing the issue to light himself probably dissuaded most of her apprehension. Nevertheless, she gratefully took the embellished taco into her hands. Smiling even more in kind as she began to consume the food.

"Sure, thanks, where'd you get that though." Beryl asked as she chomped down on the crispy corn shell, ingesting the beef, cheese, and various veggies with it.

"Well, Julia really meant it when she said this island was 'fully facilitated'. Shit tons of Mexican food and ingredients and shit in there, saran wrapped and as fresh as a Mickey D's Big Mac. Even got a bunch of stuff from a vegetable crisper for ya. I didn't know what you wanted on yours, so i just put everything on it." Walter explained before taking a bite of his own.

"Oh, well, that's neat." Beryl said simply.

It would probably have been easy to shove the pistol in his abdomen, blow his guts out his asshole before he realized anything was up, but with her lungs still on fire, and her conviction in her firing abilities vacillate at best, she didn't want to risk fucking up and losing her life so quickly. Besides, Beryl was legitimately thankful that her boyfriend could have gotten perhaps the most delectable form of sustenance this island had to offer for her. That didn't completely redeem him, he was still a jackass, just not pure evil. And she still didn't have any intentions on giving up her plan.

They ate their food in silence, aside from the munching and crunching of their mouths as they dined on a Mexican breakfast. Once they were finished, wiping the various slop from their mouths, it was Walter who began the serious conversation.

"So babe, what took you so long?"

"Sorry about that, I almost ran into somebody and had to take a more…protracted route," Beryl lied as she tried to spot a weapon on her boyfriend. He wasn't holding anything other than the straps of his bag, and she didn't see anything that appeared to be in the pockets of his leather jacket. _Better make sure though, he could be hiding something after all._

"Uh, hey, where's your weapon?" she asked with feigned airiness.

He chose to show, not tell, his fling what he was assigned as a weapon. In one deft motion he pulled out a wooden handle with a spike the size of a small dagger coming from the wood. It was an icepick that he had tucked into the waistline of his jeans. He balled the handle into his meaty fist and clutched it tightly.

"This. Is my weapon. I'd of liked a gun more like you, or even a sword or a switchblade, but if mafia hitmen, Abe Reles. Harry Strauss. Tony Spilotro. Hell, even Walter Freeman. If those fucks can do it, then holy hell I'm set." Walter declared with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Heh, yeah… that's pretty cool." Beryl said nervously, trying to appease her boyfriend. _Perfect, he has no gun…no firefight…of course if he gets his hands around you, you're screwed, and not in a good way._

"So," Beryl said as she tried to get the conversation rolling again, "what now?"

"We play," Walter answered quickly, " it's simple really. We play to win. You and me, the two of us can sweep this island, if we come across anybody we kill them and take their weapon and move on. We ain't gonna go down easily, you and me can watch each other's back and we can go all the way to the end."

"But what happens then, one of us gotta kill the other, don't we?" Beryl asked as she gripped her pistol just a bit more sternly.

"Listen, by the end we'll both have a shitload of guns and blades and crap, we'll just battle it out with our badass guns when it's just the two of us and whoever walks away from that'll win. Could be like the ending to Good Bad and Ugly for all I care. Until then though, we gotta promise to watch each others backs and shoot to kill, got it?" Walter hastily explained in a surprisingly well-executed speech.

"I don't know," Beryl admitted with honesty that surprised even herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to win; if her friends stood in the way of her survival, then she'd just have to ebb out those little speed bumps with a well-placed bullet or two. But it wouldn't be easy, damn, even coming to terms with the thoughts weren't easy. A modicum of conscience would tell her that this really isn't the right thing, and the angel on her shoulder kept her convinced that murder wasn't within her capabilities. _Maybe, maybe not, you just don't know until you try it, do you? As they say in the army, it gets easier after your first time, right?  
_

"I mean, it's not that I don't want to live, I just don't know if i have it in me to pull off a murder," she said weakly. "Do you think we should call Rodney and the others?" she asked in addition.

"I'll do it if you're too gunshy, just give me your gun and let me take care of everything Berry, you just stand aside and look pretty," Walter practically demanded as he reached for Beryl's pistol. "Oh and to answer your question, we don't need them, they'll just slow us down." He added. On instinct Beryl tugged her arm away to keep him from getting the CZ-75.

"Whoa, hang on a second there, what the fuck was that?" Walter questioned indignantly as he tried to grapple her wrist. "You trying to fight me, woman? You honest to god trying to fight me?"

"The gun stays with me! I don't care what you do, it's mine." she replied smartly as she twisted away from him. "Get your hands off me!"

Enraged, Walter bounded over and landed a vicious blow across her lower jaw, causing her to stumble backwards as her mandible was left sore and throbbing with pain. He then threateningly pointed his icepick at her.

"Listen Berry, you didn't just do that, see what you did? You fucking worthless cunt?" Walter hollered as the infuriation began to take over, "Now, if you give me the gun now, we can pretend that didn't happen. I might give you a second chance instead of stabbing your fucking bitch ass over and over again and leaving you for dead like the worthless cunt you are. Do you want that to happen, huh? Do you really want to die, because I'll fucking do it! Honest to motherfucking god, now give me the gun now!" Walter's face had now transformed from his usual cynical scowl to a feral mask of twisted fury and deranged eyes. Predatory ones that had hardly a semblance of emotion in them, yet in the face of that, Beryl had to make a decision.

Still clutching her jaw in immense pain, Beryl forced out, "Fuck that."

She made an audacious yet rather stupid move; she briskly slapped the icepick out of Walter's grasp and quickly raised her gun, closing her eyes while doing so, and squeezed the trigger twice. Her ears were ringing from the gunshots in such close proximity, and her right arm felt like some medieval torture device had ruined it. It sucks that she didn't gauge how loud such a simple looking pistol would be, or how much the mofo would kick. She was disoriented enough that she couldn't be sure whether her shots had met her target, but at the same time she could see him stagger back with his hands clasped over his face. _Yeah, take that you fuckin' asshole, how do you like them apples?_

She could stick around to finish what she started, she could stay and execute him, seeing to one hundred percent certain that he was dead. But with her arm still on fire from the gun's recoil, she didn't think she had the aim to do it. Instead, she whirled around and made a wild run for escape, hoping to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. She could hear his hollers of anger and trademark cursing behind her, spurring Beryl further to get the hell out of dodge.

With adrenaline coursing through her system and pushing her to her limits for the second time that hour, Beryl sprinted as fast as she could through the plaza. Even though it was a horror flick cliché, she didn't even dare to look back, a grim feeling nibbling at her that if she chanced a glance behind that Walter would be right behind her just like a human monster. What was definitive however was that it was a horrible idea to stay within the confines of the streets, too well-lit and too little cover with flashy, manifesting buildings all over the place. If she wanted half a chance at survival, she had to get out of here. There were forests outside, as well as a hotel and surrounding cabins, beaches, and all sorts of other facilities around that would offer plenty of hiding places. Anything but staying here where Walter could catch up to her.

It wasn't until she was out of the central town did she risk a look over her shoulder. And she was greeted to the horrifying sight of absolutely nothing. Nothing but her and the trees, that was.

Feeling the exhaustion already begin to take over, Beryl slowed down to a slight walk. _That was close, can't let that happen again, next time you won't be so lucky. He'll kill you if you don't up your game, they'll all try to kill you unless you start getting serious. This is no game. This is survival..._

As her eyes fell across the pistol in her sweaty palms, an acidic grimace crossed her face. Beryl had now made up her mind, it was game on.

* * *

"Fuck!" Walter cursed, his voice deep and filled with pain. One hand was balled into a constant fist, while the other kept reaching up toward his head. He gingerly touched his ear before the pain surged though his head and down his neck and spine. He cursed again from his fetal position in the darkness.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck shit fuck!" He shot out with another string of caustic obscenities. "Goddamn that hurt!"

As the pain slowly, slowly abated, Walter felt just calm enough to stop focusing entirely on the seething pain, and instead think about whom just caused it all.

"Fucking bitch!" Walter boomed, cupping his bleeding ear, "Fucking feminist psychocunt bitch!" He clamped his jaw shut and sat himself up. How in the hell had he been shot in the _ear?_ That bitch's eyes had stayed closed, and Walter still had managed to get himself shot. He kept telling himself he was lucky that either of the bullets hadn't been two inches to the left, where it would have gone right through his face and out the back of his head. It was also been a benediction that she didn't stay to finish the job or even steal his icepick (which he spotted lying at rest besides two dingy metal trash cans).

Lucky indeed, while the first nicked his ear and caused great pain, bleeding, but no life threatening damage, the other shot harmlessly careened into Taco Bueno's storefront window.

But he sure as hell didn't feel lucky. He wondered if the bleeding was going to cause some problems for him. It would obviously be best to wrap something around his ear, but Walter didn't have many options being no medic, nor having any expediently available first aid to help alleviate the bleeding.

Walter took his leather jacket off of his shoulders and began to tug off his t-shirt, being careful as he pulled it up over his head not to touch his ear. He started to wrap it around his head, feeling some damp flesh pushed up against the side of his head (_gross_). It made him sick to think about the dangling tissue that used to be his left ear.

When he was done, a sleeve drooped in front of his face. He adjusted it and released a quivering exhale. Well, his victim and gun had both gotten away, but he was still alive and able to fight. He still had his map and food and water. The game had only just begun, and Walter had no intention of losing. With some hope, he could be getting a tangible first kill soon. With some luck, they could even be that little cunt Berry who had just defied him. _That vapid, worthless cunt... cut her down, squeeze the life right out of her. Make her choke to death right on those prudish feminist preaching's. Yeah, that'll do well._

He balled both hands into fists until his muscles cramped.

_Next time,_ he thought,_ she won't get away!_

* * *

Classy, Refined, Prude, Pulchritudinous, Sexy, Bitchy. What do all of those words have in common? The answer is that they have all been used to describe Violet Belle a.k.a. Girl#24 at some point doing her career as a high school student.

Of course, as of being inducted into America's Ninth Annual Battle Royale; she was feeling anything but any of the above listed adjectives. Upon coming into the game she was a total train wreck; sputtering, shivering and completely terrified out of her wits.

"Out of all the possible things that could happen. This is. THE. WORST. POSSIBLE. THING!" She exclaimed to no one._ And I really mean it this time! _She had made that outburst before as a relative drama queen, of course she usually had a sofa or some comfort pad to fall on before sobbing, wallowing and crying out "woe is me!" But now she couldn't find such comforts.

Initially upon entering the program, all of the "frivolous" beauty products she almost religiously applied on herself had become runny due to her copious sobbing. She had managed to locate a small washroom in a barrack on the islands far northern port, on the beach no less. How romantic! She had washed up and cleaned her face well enough to where the makeup and mascara was no longer a liability. Looking in the mirror of the small bathroom she had located, Violet felt well enough to smile. Even though she no longer had any artificial recovery to bolster her aesthetics to model quality, she was still incredibly attractive naturally. Besides, innate beauty mattered far more than any sort of fake facades one could implement; you can't feign pulchritude, she never faked her great looks, only enhanced them. Not that looking good would do her much good out here, but it didn't hurt, right?

In school her incredibly gorgeous visage had been benedictions in more happenstances then she could count, of course now it probably had come to bite her directly in the ass. She never really watched any of the previous seasons (_Ugh, only ruffians would bother with such a ghastly program_). However; a rule of thumb with horror flicks, reality shows, and apparently tournaments of death as of 2002, was to include as many beautiful people as possible. That was probably the entire reason (besides being affiliated with the famous "Pallet Girls" unbeknownst to her) she had been shuffled into the contestant roster and sent to this abysmal island.

Looking away, she sighted a bit of graffiti that someone had scrawled next to the sink some unknown amount of time ago. The Sick Fucks. Whether a subtle reference to Alone in the Dark (_1982_), or merely referring to an entire group...Violet still thought of everyone running this "game" as just that. A bunch of sick..._fucks._

Normally she was not one to be fond of obscenities. For profane language was not befitting of the hoity-toity image she liked to uphold for herself. But even she needed to say, that "sick fucks" was definitely one of the most apropos statement to describe this whole mess, aside from being in a game that signed her life away as entertainment for the masses. She was alone, unaware, and unarmed. Sort of.

Her duffel bag was lying on the white-tiled floor of the cell washroom, and her assigned Louisville Slugger was leaning up against the exposed piping underneath the sink. A wooden baseball bat, a simple, even deadly club in able hands, but in hers it may as well have been a Tootsie Pop for what ability with combat she had. It could've been worse she supposed. _Things could always be worse._

Normally she wouldn't be caught dead in a place so dingy and banal, but her pedantic and fastidious fixation to hygiene and aesthetics would have to be ignored. For now at least; at least until she got her priorities in order.

According to the video some of the weapons were far more useless, actually they probably couldn't even be considered weapons. They probably got, what, a slinky? An old videotape? A pouch of Capri Sun? Who's to say what her more inauspicious peers would get? The government, that's who. Though the government was courteous enough to leave them their respective phones she supposed. However there always had to be a monkey wrench in things.

What problem was posed was how she couldn't come into contact with any of her friends! She had tried calling all of them throughout the three hours she had been out and roaming the playing field. Tragically April Macintosh a.k.a. Girl#2 didn't own a cell phone, so by default she couldn't be contacted. The others however, either they had abandoned her or were in serious trouble. Rain, Mitsumi, Flora, Diane…none of them had responded to her calls. Now that was irrefutably a fucked up situation! She had no means of telecommunication towards any of them… she was a sitting duck all alone! _They left you. They could have stuck around, could have helped you, but they ran off and left you to die like this, everyone just ran off their own way, it's Mitsumi's fault isn't it? She probably told everyone to go off and do their own thing, that's how she works, that's how she always goes, she would let any of us go before her, right?_

As distraught as she was, and no matter how much she wanted to blame her friends for causing her involuntary solitude. She knew she couldn't. She wasn't the last of her friends to be sent out, Mitsumi was. And even before her April was also after Violet…so it couldn't possibly be that they had chosen to abandon her. She had chosen to abandon them.

She was really starting to lose hope, and faith in living. She even considered hopping off the ridges of cliffs nearby the shore, would only be a ten minute journey and would spare her a great deal of pain and anguish that was soon to follow. A merciful and likely instant suicide compared to the horrible death that one of her fellow classmates was sure to bestow upon her. There was simply no way her of all people could leave this thing alive, sure she was smoking hot. One of the most beautiful girls in the school even, but she couldn't kill, she wasn't ready willing nor able, not only mentally, but even physically. With just a baseball bat? No way. It would be too disgusting to get her hands dirty, in more then one way.

A sudden beep jolted her out of her thoughts. Frantically she looked down at her collar, certain that it was about to detonate and decapitate her in an explosion of sparks. Thoroughly startled, she staunchly flinched and screamed miserably. Much to her relief, it was still dormant. Just a dull red LED light blinking away in accordance with her heart rate. Even though it was just her phone she still thought it was the end for her, until she realized indeed, that someone had sent her a text message as indicated by the standard three-burst blares of her designated ringtone.

Fishing the phone out of the pocket of her designer jeans and looking at the cellular device's LED screen, she could see that the message was sent none other than by her step-sister Shira (Girl#8) as indicated by the notification below the flashing envelope picture. Enthralled yet still worried sick for her half-sister. She instantly opened the message, the text read:

_Where r u sis? Im scared!_

_Jesus Christ Shira! How could I have forgotten to contact her of all people?! What the fuck's wrong with you Violet? Some sister you are._

Not wasting any time, Violet quickly hit the _REPLY_ option and typed out:

_I'm at a hut on the northern coast of the island. Where are you Shira? Are you okay!? Sorry for not calling sooner_

Then without hesitation she quickly sent the text. As Violet anxiously awaited her sibling's reply and updated status on her well-being, she began chewing on her finely manicured nails. This was a habit that under any other circumstance no matter how stressful, she wouldn't have condoned. But under a game where the only outcome is death, and exacerbated by how her best friends and even her own family was included in this lethal tournament. She was willing to make an exception this one time. That was what made this program so messed up, the fact that they tugged on heartstrings like this. Pitting friends, couples, even flesh and blood family against each other in this death race. Sacrificing love, camaraderie, even relatives, throwing all of that away just for the sake of cheap entertainment.

She idly wondered if her death would actually rile up the gambling audience. After what seemed like a year but was only two minutes, the dinging of her phone piqued her attention once more.

_Im at the zen hotel, I believe I am safe for now, its on the islands northside im scared tho._

Zen Hotel? Wait a moment; Violet knew she had passed by that locale earlier, hell. She knew that whole surrounding area; the turgid sign being held by a turn-of-the-century man statue was near impossible to miss at the entrance of the compound. The conspicuous and brightly lit tourist souvenir kiosk next door was even more improbable to miss, it was as subtle as Elijah Wood's ears, which was to say not at all.

Now that she had visualized the area in her mind, it would only take twenty minutes of jogging to get there. Physically it would not be interminable in the slightest, but just the concept of leaving her shelter, even if it was for her half-sister was still near unthinkable. Violet didn't have it in her to set off and rescue her sibling, did she? It seemed an impossible thing to do, to leave the safety of her shelter and head out in the open. It would take a serious hero to do something that... suicidal, and Violet was no hero.

She could be.

The thought astonished Violet, but trying to mentally refute it, she found that she couldn't. It made sense, in a way. Despite the fact that it seemed unbelievably stupid, it still made sense to her. She couldn't just sit here on her ass for the rest of her life...literally. It might've been the smart thing to do, it might allow her to avoid most of the players out there, it might even allow her to win the game by alignment of the planets on a blue moon on a lucky seven, but she didn't think she could do that. It just felt so... helpless. If they wanted her to serve as cannon fodder in this god-forsaken game, she refused to idly stand by and let whatever sick fucks are watching the show watch her die. She wanted to prove them wrong. Violet Belle might not be well suited for this Battle Royale, but she wouldn't be helpless.

She could not stand by and let her sweet sister Shira get murdered, she would need to be there for her. Even if she got killed in the process, as long as Shira survived... Violet supposed that would be the only consolidation she would need.

Grasping her cell phone with trembling fingers, wiping some perspiration from her forehead, she quickly typed up a reply.

_don't worry shira, i'll be right there._

With that out of the way, Violet grabbed her baseball bat in both hands and readied to make the hike out. If Shira was in danger, she would go out and help her. She might not be able to fight, but she could run and she could hide. She could more than take care of herself out there. And once she found Shira, the two of them could find some safer place to hide out than a motel or some random bathroom in a beach shack. Who knows, Shira may have been lucky enough to be assigned a gun. That would certainly make things less problematic.

Slinging her bag on her shoulders, Violet prepared to set off. She had every intention to protect her sister.

* * *

Mallick Nadim a.k.a. Boy #25 was a living contradiction, an All-American Muslim. He would wave the flag more vigorously, and eat more barbeque and pie than any other on the Fourth of July. Not because he truly valued such a barbaric and hedonistic culture, or was truly that supportive. But merely because he had to. He knew he had to. It was what society wanted, what his parents wanted, hell. What the whole fucking world seemed to want. After 9/11 it seemed the whole nation began to hate Muslims and Islam and anything that even vaguely resembled Middle East anything.

He was by a long shot on the very lower end of Cold Rivers social hierarchy, being on the receiving end of prejudice, threatening letters taped to his locker, hate crimes, and even different treatment and wayward glances from school faculty! All of that? That wasn't due to really anything in his power. It really wasn't, it was all just a prime example of modern racism and ignorant bigotry. Mallick wasn't the brightest bulb in the circuit, but even he knew that. Being chastised for your heritage? Hell, that's no different than the Fifties! Except instead of Spearchuckers, it's now aimed more at camel jockeys! I mean, seriously? It seemed as soon as the twin towers got decimated, that was just a green light for the good ol' US of A to begin treating the Middle East like a fucking toilet. Bombing mosques and towns with wild abandon, killing civilians left and right. Apparently millions of fatalities against people that never wronged America in order to justify the death of only 3000 Americans was perfectly vindicated in Republicans eyes… Millions…3000, the same! Right?

Nevertheless, as much as it was selling out to all he believed in, Mallick tolerated it, let it drape off his back. He even began to side with the true patriots. If he were as patriotic as could be, then people would have to realize he's not a terrorist out for blood, right?

Attempts to distinguish himself from Muslim radicals by proclaiming his great love of America and all its forms (including government) have seemed to have a marginal effect, but it was likely just pity and disgust rather than admiration. _Man, you just can't please people anymore, you're a terrorist for being Muslim, yet you're a sellout and a phony for being a patriot, what the fuck is that?_

But he sure as fuck was a patriot, much more then the redneck armchair warriors who only watched Fox News and were xenophobic douchebags, more then even some politicians. He had very well damn proved that when he was fervently against that protest that the Jap and black kid threw all those months ago like some shebang.

He thought of that hot May afternoon where he'd walked across the parking lot to the post office, the sun blaring down on his back and the letter he'd contemplated filling out for weeks shaking in his sweaty palms. All he'd had to do was rush in and give his envelope to Ms. Caraway and things would start rolling from there. She'd leave a friendly smile, her body smelling pleasantly of lavender oil, and gladly fulfill his request for mailing. He had been a red-blooded American patriot then, and he still was now dammit!

_And that's that,_ Mallick thought. _Just like you were supposed to. Just like he told you. It was all for the greater good._

Mallick had always been a follower who went with the best option with little whim or reason. If selling somebody out was the best option, he was more than obliged to do it in an instant. All that mattered to him – all that had ever mattered – was keeping himself out of harm's way. In his mind, other people came second. It wasn't selfish – it was just the fact that the world worked that way when you couldn't trust anyone.

_And even with that, _Mallick thought. _You were still convinced to sign up…_

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts and get back to the picture, he continued to scan the nearby vicinity with the eyes of a hawk. When self-esteem became an issue for him as it would with any other teen, Mallick's mother began to take him to the shooting range and showed him how high-powered weapons could be used to inflate one's image, After all, nothing shouts "America!" more than guns and knowing how to use them! It helped, most definitely. Who needed friends and people to talk to when you had the heavy boom and recoil of a high-powered rifle? Who needed sex when guns' true power spit forth fire and death?

The comfort of his randomly assigned weapon was greater than anything he could have expected. A Heckler & Koch PSG1 sniper rifle with a kickass scope! Now this was awesome! He had arguably the most accurate semi-automatic sniper rifle in the _world_ at his disposal! All he needed to do was find an open area with a high and sheltered spot and the game would be his, no questions asked. It also came equipped nicely with several preloaded box magazines, ten rounds per clip. So in total, he counted up to sixty bullets. That was badass!

There wasn't anything stopping him from perching himself up a high spot, zooming his rifle scope into the exit of the school and blasting away anyone and everyone who walked through that door. He had the opportunity to do that the moment he was released. Hell, if he had resorted to that, he could've potentially eliminated twenty other contestants and really be on top of things. But no, he didn't think of it at the time and just how unfair would that be?

Sighing to himself, Mallick kept following the map north and found that in due time the trees parted as they were supposed to and he found what he wanted to:

Weber's Seaside Resort.

Here was a hotel that measured to be about twenty stories tall. Mallick had just entered the front lobby of the skyscraper. He cautiously made his way through the vast, well-decorated front room of the hotel. Looking around, he could see the lavish foyer in all its glory. The lacquered linoleum floor was polished to the T. Swirls of gold and auburn cascaded off of each other, making the floor seem like a diverse cornucopia of colors and surges of caramel and chocolate. _How delectable. _The walls depicted pictures of what appeared to be ancient Greeks competing fiercely in Olympic competitions, locked in unmitigated contention to win the title of victory to their name, not too dissimilar from what he and his classmates were trying to do themselves. A toasty fireplace was fixated just below the portrait of some turn of the millennia man in shining armor, the fire belching out hospitable flames of inviting warmth and comfort, but none of that was for him. Oh no, he wasn't going to have the comforts of a roaring fire to heat him up. Not when he was at the top, both figuratively and literally. _Yeah man, you're a god, you're destined for greater things then this. Make it and you can have as many warm fires as you want in your mansion! Maybe roast some chestnuts while sipping on some hot cocoa, yeah, that's the stuff!_

Though he did have to admit why the fire was freshly lit in the first place, either it's gas operated, or the conductors of the game lit it just before the game began. He stood still for a moment, basked in the intrinsic beauty of the naked flame. It casting orange hues on his figure and on the furniture in front of him. The heat signatures moderately comfortable and soothing. It didn't hold his attention for long, after a few seconds he shook his head and continued to his objective.

Three large sofa chairs were placed facing the fire as well as a glass-bottom coffee table; it would be an ideal scene given that the place was still inhabited.

Coming to an elevator, he pressed the "up" button. A moment later, one of the elevators opened up in front of him. The silver doors slid apart and he quickly stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor. The elevator doors quickly closed on him and he began his ascent.

Mallick wanted to get as far above the ground as he possibly could. He had good reasons for this. First of all, he figured that if he was hundreds of feet in the air, it would be hard for anyone else to locate him. Secondly, his sniper rifle would be absolutely perfect for a locale such as this. From the top of the skyscraper, he would be able to see the whole of the city. That would allow him to keep track of where everyone else was.

He calmly began listening to the jolly, rudimental melody of the xylophone style music that was playing in the elevator. The theme seemed reminiscent of…Beethoven…no, not Beethoven, an American composer like…Duke Ellington.

He began humming anyways to the xylophonic jazz tune and drumming his fingers along the leg of his jeans with his bag hanging by his other side.

Soon, Mallick reached the top floor of the skyscraper. After the elevators opened up, he stepped out and made his way to the faculty staircase. He forced the door open and made his way up to the roof. Fortunately for him, the door was unlocked. He opened it up and stepped outside; he came out onto the center of the roof. Mallick ran to the edges of the roof and began examining the building's surroundings. Before setting up his sniper rifle, he wanted to determine what would be the best position to shoot from.

Looking through the telescopic sight, he could see all the way from the Louis Pasteur Memorial Plaza, to the starting bunker that was now illuminated by a glaring and flagrant area of harsh red light. From the forest just short of the north shore, to Hillsborough Campers…_Sweet, I can see everything!_

But he couldn't get too excited; or the present, he decided to wait until dawn before he did anything with his weapon. He couldn't afford to take shots in such peripheral darkness, his scope didn't come equipped with night vision or thermal optics unfortunately and he couldn't afford to carelessly spend ammo. He would wait until sunrise to hunt. He would not have to wait long for the sun to rise; it was past three o'clock.

Mallick slid his backpack off his shoulders and rested prone against the edge of the roof. There was no railing, but the border of the roof was about a foot taller than its surface. He would be able to rest his sniper rifle on top of the ledge and simultaneously kneel in a comfortable position.

Sure there was an issue of being exposed to the elements (as well as opportunistic passer byers), but the weather was moderate. Certainly survivable, and even quite pleasant; there was also the disadvantage that someone who passed by could see him. But let's face it; one pull of the trigger and that unfortunate soul would be one less head short of a person. Besides, even if they did manage to elude Mallick's gunfire, they'd have to climb all the way up stairs and push open the back door to the roof, the one and only entrance, in order to reach him, and by then he'd likely have his rifle at the ready. That made him feel all the more secure.

As Mallick sat on the roof with his two bags in his possession resting on both sides, he thought about what was to come. Then he wondered; what could his friends be doing?

"I really hope I won't have to kill Abigail or Nick, or even some of the Pallet Girls," he uttered, "Maybe if I'm lucky, somebody else will take care of them. It'll save me the guilt."


	10. Hour 4: 48 Contestants Remaining

Violet Belle, a.k.a. Girl#24 hadn't had much luck in finding the Zen Hotel. More than anything it was just a complete lack of luck. She had intended on making a straight path to the locale but instead couldn't find it anywhere. What she didn't realize was how truly abysmal her navigating skills were. Even though she knew exactly what the place looked like and even a vague idea on where it was. Actually getting her butt over there was an entirely different story. Instead of making a straight path over to the Zen, instead she wound up taking a wide arc around it and just made a full circle around it without getting any closer to it then when she was situated on her beach hut.

Though she was still luckier than she knew, on multiple occasions since her trek had begun she had narrowly avoided danger. She had almost encountered Nick Delaney a.k.a. Boy #23 near a tattoo parlor just a quarter mile south of her destination. She had thankfully eluded his notice, if she had been caught by Nick she most likely would have been pumped full of holes and bled to death within seconds. As well she contemplated short cutting through the Louis Pasteur plaza to her goal, if she had she ran the risk of being taken out by Mallick Nadim a.k.a. Boy #25 and his rifle. She even witnessed a brief gunfight between 'Berry' Puckett a.k.a. Girl #19 and another contestant somewhere in the surrounding woodlands. But thankfully both of the combatants had been too distracted to notice Violet to engage her. She was fortunately spared of all of the lethal scenarios that they could have brought her, the variables seemed to be playing in her favor, for now at least. But aside from cheating death through stealth and sheer auspicial blessings, she still wasn't feeling too lucky.

With her survival pack slung over her shoulders, and both hands gripped tightly around the electric tape wrapped around the handle of her assigned Louisville Slugger. She was seriously starting to get flustered, how hard could it be to find a single hotel in a residential area, or even just the residential area period? Consulting the map really didn't seem to help her for whatever recondite reason. It just lead her on the same fruitless trial that had had been leading her for the past hour.

Thankfully though she had continued receiving concerned messages from Shira (Girl#8) about her whereabouts. And she would respond with the same general format assuring that she was ok, it was even becoming a little bit of a pestilence having to constantly remind her step-sister she was fine. At least it let her know that her sibling was okay and was still glad that Shira was worried for her, it showed she was worried for her and had unaffected love for Violet. Nevertheless, anxious messages didn't get her any closer to her target.

She had long deserted any signs of the towns. Though she could see the towering gargantuan of prodigality that was Weber's seaside resort towering above her in the sky far away in the distance. Spotlights seemed to waver back and forth, painting white cones of light flat against the surface of the resort wall. The white mixing with the darkness of the night made the lighting almost seem a pitch of blue. Almost. It was sort of her shining star in the night for her, her guiding beacon. Like the star of Bethlehem that lead the three wise men to Baby Jesus, or something like that. Not nearly as poetic or divine in terms of symbolism. But nevertheless, the looming display of lavishness still seemed to draw her like a moth to a flame.

She never was a Christian, her parents were devout religious practitioners, but she herself was agnostic; thankfully her parents were accepting of this, they were religious most definitely, but thankfully also tolerant of others beliefs. Though she still couldn't help but wonder if there was a god, not because she wanted to pray for one to save her now, but just because she wanted to know if this supposed god actually decided to place her in this for whatever plan he or she had in store.

She was secular, though sometimes an idle part of her did want to believe in the possibility that there was some sort of deity observing the cosmos, not perhaps the god that Islam or Christianity proposes; But, maybe some sort of omniscient entity. Violet was open to the idea, but until evidence proves otherwise, she could not bring herself to buy into that whole spiel. _Though if Jehovah, or Allah or Jesus or damn whoever could help us all out here that would be just great._

The sky was lit up with not only the ascending floodlights illuminating the hotel's face, but also the high moon in the sky and provided enough light to travel through the forest. Shadows still surrounded the girl on all sides. Looking above, she could see the light rays of lightened midnight blue inching above horizons and expanding through the vast night sky. Looking back down, she noticed she was just coming to the edge of a ravine. Coming to a stop from her vigorous run, she took a moment to regain her breath. She loved Shira enormously, but her body could only do so much, she needed to rest for a little, then she would resume her quest.

"This is good a spot as any," Violet said aloud to herself lackadaisically. She dropped her duffel bag off her back to the side and let her bat dangle down to her waist by one loose hand.

She knelt down to the ground in exhaustion, she no longer felt comfortable supporting her body's entire weight (even though it wasn't much by most standards) on her two tired feet. She released the bat from her grip for a transitory period to shake her hands free of perspiration and grasp the gassy knoll in her grasp, not only to calm her nerves, but also so the earth turf could absorb some of the moisture from her sweaty palms.

Catching a glimpse over the edge, she could see the rocky, unforgiving ocean floor below. Due to it being dark out and not having her best wits about her, she wasn't positive how far of a drop it was, but she estimated it was at least seventy feet down. _Ouch. _

Seeing that vast drop down gave her a sense of vertigo accompanied by a wave of hopelessness washing over her as she sucked in a painful gasp. Her eyes watered and she quickly wiped them clean. The ground was starting to dig into Violet's knees, and she gripped the grass so tightly, that the thin blades of green began getting ripped crudely out of the soil. The rustling leaves whispered of hidden dangers.

"What should I _do_?" Violet said, suddenly beginning to lose her composure. She wrung her hands together before running them through her opulent and thick curled hair. She leaned forward until she was on all fours, driving a fist into the soft ground.

"WHAT SHOULD I DO?" Violet repeated, her voice high and hysterical.

Had she been more aware of her environment, she likely wouldn't have shouted so clamorously. If she hadn't been so emotionally discombobulated she would have likely been able to sense someone approaching, instead the rustling of a nearby bush reached Violet's ears and she reflexively glanced up. Turning around to face the noise. She remembered the wooden club she had released from earlier and brought it up into both of her hands as she rose to a standing position.

Her eyes caught sight of the moonlight reflecting off a long curved object suspended upright. It appeared it was being held by a person (_Duh!_). Violet stared the mystery person down, bounteous dress shoes, and a lavish and flowing purple cloak. This person looked like a Las Vegas magician. Even in the oversized gown, Violet could still tell this person was female, the slender figure and womanly curves would definitely indicate for it. If it was that obvious even in such inflated clothing, then this girl had the body of a model. _Almost as voluptuous as me._

Attire aside there was something else that stuck out about this girl. As she stepped forward, the moonlight shined down on the girl, illuminating her face and revealing a malignant grin, a mouthful of pearly white hauteur. Then the tanned skin of the girl and the opulence of her hair that rivaled Violet's began to paint a picture. She knew this girl, she also knew that this girl despised her and her friends. She specifically had a grudge against Mitsumi and Flora, but their associates were equally as culpable apparently. The girl was also wielding a double-handed scythe as it turned out. With the cloak, scythe and the dangerously cheerful smile, she looked like death on crack. Trixie Song a.k.a. Girl#9 stood staring Violet down with a cocky grimace.

"What should you do?" Trixie said, repeating the question and unfolding her arms. She brought the falcate up to the side of her head and lightly scratched her temple with the tip, while gazing up at the sky like she was pretending to contemplate making a decision. "That's a very good question," the girl commented at last, lowering the scythe to her side, the hand gripping the handle a little tighter.

"Why don't we find out together?" Trixie asked.

* * *

There was nothing all that meretricious about the house, it would've been quite grand according to the standards of most middle-class Americans. Two stories, a foyer, two baths, a medium sized kitchen facilitated with all customary appliances that could be expected from a kitchen. Two bedrooms in addition to a dining hall, living room and all other basic provisions and architectural necessities required for a house of this size. Quite impressive, but not boastfully so. In Cold Rivers more prominently affluent neighborhoods, it would've been a very common sight, homely, even. However, the one thing that all of the rooms and furniture within the loft all had in common regarding Abigail Macintosh (Girl#10), was that they were all a mystery, each a potential holder for what was her veritable lifeline.

Behind any given nook and cranny, inside of any cabinet or drawer, in any possible to reach place within it's confines was what had been given to her in the very beginning of the game by the oh so wonderful overseers of the 9th Annual United States Battle Royale. Each spot was as neutral and nebulous as any of the rest (asides from the ones she had already searched, mind you). Though before the game, whoever previously occupied the home likely kept it clean with punctilious attention; all that effort was negated by Abigail's thorough searching of each spot she could think of. _The previous landlord would probably be fucking pissed at all the shit thrown around, huh? Ahh well, he's probably dead now so it's not like it's bothering anyone. Right?_

Each room was more or less the same story, search ravenously through every possible space, leave no stone unturned. That is exactly what the girl had in mind while she was inspecting each room with as much attention to detail as those investigators on CSI. And boy was it messy, each place looked like a miniature hurricane had swept through it. Every piece of whatever was in the room was strewn about it's respective floor and all pieces of furniture had had all removable parts dismantled in an attempt for digging deeper in to search more extensively.

In summary, Abigail was as meticulous as it got when it came to inspection, what was her incentive for violating about this innocent mini-mansion? Why would she deface and completely mess up what was at some point, likely had years worth of time and effort invested in making sure it was ineffably clean. Her whole motive for exerting so much energy in such an acute examination?

Well the answer was a simple one, Flora Sharpe.

She wasn't doing this because Flora had commanded her to, even if she did, there would've been no point. In a game of death, deliberately vandalizing what was once someone's property was about as fruitful as sticking hot coals down your pants. No, she was doing this because of a challenge Flora had proposed, a treasure hunt, if you will; with only one item on the list.

And that item was a Mac-10 Ingram Machine Pistol.

Abigail's assigned weapon before her and Flora Sharpe's (Girl#11) scuffle in the earliest moments in the game, that admittedly could've cost Abby her own life. _Stupid Abby, Stupid! You can't fuck up like that again, you were lucky that was only Flora, had it been Rain or Carlos…or anyone else really, you would've died at least three hours ago! _

After the skirmish was all said and done and both girls left alive and relatively unscathed (aside for a few bruises on Flora's mid-section and flesh wound on her right thigh, and some psychological trauma that would likely haunt Abigail for the rest of the game, if not, at least a few months afterwards), they had both agreed to a compromise where Flora would play hide-and-go-seek with Abby's gun in the nearest and most apropos location, given the circumstances. After a brief trek into the surrounding woodlands, they had come upon a mini McMansion likely built (or at least owned by/occupied by) sometime during the Vietnam War if the anti-communistic literature and "My Lai" propaganda lying around was any implication. Speaking of which, looking to the side, Abigail could see, among other things: Two Days In October, Cat's Cradle, Why Are We in Vietnam? (_Gee i wonder what that one's about_), knew that this was all stuff Flora would've lapped up like a dog, speaking of which, Flora had gone off somewhere and hid the gun somewhere within the house and fled off into the still-dark morning to her own device. Ugh...

Chances are Abigail would have found a way to murder Flora outright, after all, she was playing the game; David was a testament to that. There were plenty of sharp objects in the kitchen and a fair amount of objects that could double as decent melee weapons. It would've been all too easy.

But she respected Flora too much to do that, to just finish her off like a dog in cold blood. Besides, there was still that off chance that she could give her another dose of… the stare. And Abigail did not like the prospect of those penetrative eyes giving her a second helping of soul-rape just before Flora finished her off for good. _Too risky._

Now here she was, running rampant around the house like a woman on a mission, and tearing through everything with purpose to find her coveted gun. _Come on! It's a machine gun for Christ's sake! How hard could it be to find that!? _

Nevertheless, despite being such a conspicuous object when juxtaposed to anything else that could've been found in a house like that. It had still managed to elude her notice, wherever it was. Abigail had been searching for the past 2 and a half hours for almost non-stop except for the occasional swig of the water bottle and the quick bite of the MRE (Flora had even been generous enough to leave her her bag so she wouldn't starve to death). It was becoming less of a needle in a haystack and more of a wild goose chase as the country girl's patience started wearing thin.

_Come on! I have turned this place upside down and still can't find it! Where on God's great Earth could it possibly be? _She thought as the fissure in the back of her skull was threatening to tear open, she shouted out in frustration as she toppled over an ornamental cupboard filled with fine china and decorative bibelots alike. It didn't really accomplish anything, and she either didn't worry or didn't care that all of that raucous could potentially attract unwanted attention. But it hardly mattered; it felt damn good all the same. Besides, stress relief was critical in keeping yourself from going insane, _right?_

Shards of glass, tinsel, and artistic dishes scattered about the room in what seemed like millions of tiny cubes. Some skidded to a halt, others rolled, some stayed stagnant, quite even a lot of shards were big enough to be used as a cheap and fragile shiv. Though at this point the ruined china wasn't the only thing that was a mess.

Much of the house was a reflection of Abigail's visage. Disheveled. Sweating profusely physically exhausted, and her normally pretty and neatly cropped hair was flustered and coated in perspiration, some of it was even clinging to her face. In order to alleviate that, she poured some excess water from her bottle onto her heated face. It assuaged her agitation just a little and cooled her off dramatically. _Ahh, that hit the spot._

She was now sober minded enough to remember a hint that Flora had given her just before she took off. She recited it out loud.

"You may find me in a place where you will see my hands, or at least, my face." Abigail said rather befuddled. Yeah, of course. In addition to hiding her weapon in a seemingly inconceivable locale, the only iota of advice given to Abigail was in the form of an arcane riddle…fucking lovely.

_What in Sam Hill is that suppose' to mean? You can see my hands before my face? I haven't seen any statues around these parts. Nor anything resembling a human or an animal in this house, so what in God's name is that suppose' to mean?_

She was pondering Flora's words, as it resonated within her mind. Suddenly, her eyes were drawn to a miraculously intact wine glass. She visually followed it with an idle amusement. It rolled, undeterred by its bottom rim, like a car with incongruous wheels. It continued to revolve over on its axis on inertia until it stopped against a wooden furnishing, making a reticent clinking noise.

Abigail took her eye off of the innocuous glass and looked up to see what had stopped its progress. It was an old-fashioned, turn-of-the-century grandfather clock. It looked to be quite elegant, which meant it was probably worth a lot to antiquity traders and pawnshops alike. _What, being old and looking nice is what generally makes things valuable, innit?_

Nevertheless, she continued to eye the aged structure, it really was a work of art going by visual assessment. Solid, sturdy, ornamented in various plats of gold and silver. Staring at the face of the clock, she noted that the hands read 3:47 in the AM. Assuming that the clock hadn't been tampered with and was actually up to date, it would soon be four in the morning.

The face itself was ivory white and seemed to emanate white light from behind it, but that was probably just her imagination. Wait a minute! Hands, Face. Can it be?

Following suit, she rushed up to the clock and squinted her eyes…_Hands, face…hands, face. Is this what Flora meant?_

Looking down to the glass cabinet of the longcase, she ripped it open and saw two golden tube weights being suspended in midair by an equally shiny, golden pendulum…it really was elaborate example of genius and comprehension in the laws and application of physics the more she thought about it. Not just then, but now as well. Setting those superfluous thoughts aside, she eyed something of utmost more importance, her gun!

It wasn't nearly as shiny or opulent as what it was encased in, but who gave a shit about that? She certainly didn't. Quickly clutching it in close like it were her child, she found that it was unloaded. Not a problem, Flora didn't purloin any of her ammunition aside from the one magazine that Flora took as a safeguard at the end of their fight in the earliest minutes of the game. The rest was all in her bag.

Slinging her bag over her shoulders, she deftly unzipped it and freely pulled out a magazine and jammed it into the machine gun. Brandishing a dark grin, she could only remark.

"Oh yeah, I'm back."

She was now ready to play, yet again! A slight deterrent, but not an unmanageable one.

She exited the mansion as confident as someone under her circumstances could be; ready to make a difference in the game.

* * *

"What's the matter girl?" Trixie said with a slight smirk, "Were you expecting someone else?"

Violet was on her feet in an instant and took a small step backwards. She wanted to cry out in pure terror, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything. In fact, it took her a moment to realize that she wasn't breathing. Eventually she pulled in a much-needed breath, however, she did it slowly, out of fear that the slightest motion would send Trixie on the offensive.

The blackness seemed to envelop the two of them, the forest fading into the background. Trixie gripped her gardeners' scythe with both hands on the wooden shaft, her duffel bag at her feet.

"You're not the one I wanted, but you'll still do." Trixie said rather unsatisfied.

Violet was rather befuddled, the one she wanted? What the hell? Getting the courage to speak up and hopefully not drive Trixie on her warpath, Violet cleared her throat and spoke meekly.

"What do you mean, 'I'll do for now'?" the fashionista asked, quite perplexed, as well as somewhat disgruntled.

Trixie continued to glare at… Oh, what was her name again? Vanessa? No, that wasn't it. Oh well, Trixie didn't really care what her name was. She was one of Sato's friends, and that's all that mattered.

"Trixie's sure you remember what that bitch friend of yours did to Trixie, always trying to strut her stuff, pale Trixie in comparison. All her underlings trying to 1-up Trixie." Trixie's pompous smirk converted into an intense glare, "Ever since that day, Trixie's been trying to figure someway to get revenge, and this game has given Trixie the perfect opportunity to get it."

A sudden look of solemn realization crossed the face of the young seamstress. "So, you're going to try and kill Mitsumi?"

Trixie smiled evilly. "You sure are an astute one aren't you?" She remarked sarcastically. "That is Trixie's ultimate plan. But, if by some stroke of bad luck, Trixie doesn't cross paths with Ms. Hiroshima and she survives, having to live knowing that she let her friends perish will do just fine." She added.

"Of course I'm going to be the one who ultimately prevails. No one can stop The Great and Powerful Trixie!" She declared.

_Ugh, what a bitch._ Violet thought. Of course this wasn't news to her, nor to really anyone around Cold Rivers High. Violet knew who Trixie was – everyone did. There were certain people that every kid in school knew on sight – the Pallet Girls and other nameless cliques of supercilious girls. Trixie was a member of one of the latter, the more vindictive and egotistical, although both seemed to hold unseen power over the rest of the student body. And according to some rumors, the faculty too. Despite knowing who the intruder was, Violet was sure that the reverse was not true. She and Trixie had never directly spoken before. Ever. To Violet, Trixie was just a spoiled bitch who referred to herself in the third person and was far too delusional and narcissistic for her, or anyone else's good.

Trixie took one step towards Violet to illicit a reaction from the latter. Violet reflexively flinched and instantly sprung up her Louisville Slugger in a defensive manner. In spite of having a large wooden club pointed at her. Trixie didn't even bat an eye. There was no fear in her face, only malevolent glee and an overwhelming sense of superiority. _Mindless bitch, no definition, __all bones and angles, definitely nothing attractive about her, if it weren't for her daddy's money she wouldn't ever get laid in a million lifetimes. Nothing compared to you, but that goes without saying. I should probably kill this vapid bitch right this very second. But where'd the fun in that be, Trixie deserves entertainment. I should toy with her first, the movies always make the villains do that and it always just seemed like so much damn fun._

"Listen, whatever your name is." Violet peered at Trixie with grim confusion and malice; as a sign of goodwill, Trixie lowered the scythe to waist level as she let it dangle in one hand. "If you entertain Trixie and answer me a riddle, I may just let you walk away from this—for now," Trixie proposed. She leaned forward, awaiting Violet's response; whichever answer she gave would be fine with her.

Violet on the other hand was perplexed to say the least. _Answer a riddle, what is this? Indiana Jones? Answer it correctly and I hopefully survive, wrong answer…I imagine she charges with the scythe. Hmm._

Violet tensely glared at Trixie as she halted time for a few precious moments of deliberation._ Hmm, I wonder if I should just try and make a bolt for it. _Just as she was considering that option as viable it was almost as if Trixie could read her mind.

"Oh please, don't even make Trixie laugh." She snickered out haughtily. "If you try to run, I will kill you. I don't want it to come to that, at least not yet." Trixie chose to pause for a brief moment to let the words sink in as effectively as possible. "Now hurry up, Trixie doesn't have all day, not for the likes of you."

Crap, now she's getting impatient. _You know, fuck this, I have to save Shira. I'll play her stupid fucking game_ _for now and be on my way. _Sighing resignedly with the realization that she didn't have that much of a choice in this matter. She swallowed a gulp and choked out a "Yes."

"Ok. Get ready for this, I would ask you if you know who Epicurus is, but since you likely have more Botox and cosmetics in your brain than blood, that'd be kind of a moot point, huh?" Trixie chided. Her face to the sky, before returning her gaze to Violet. Her hands were placed on her hips and she was leaning slightly forward, with an expectant expression plastered on her face. She might as well have screamed the word "PATRONIZING", like she was speaking to a mentally handicapped child. "Nevertheless," she continued, "There is a rather famous riddle of his that in eight short sentences refutes the entire prospect of there being this omniscient, benevolent, Christian god." She explained with an unusually formal diction; her air of haughty condensation seeming to instantly evaporate. "Now listen closely, for Trixie is only going to say this once, okay?" Violet nodded vagrantly, still not in complete comprehension of what was playing out before her, but still going with the flow.

"Okay, now- Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?" Trixie stopped talking all at once, then concluded with, "So, Trixie asks, what are your thoughts on that?"

Violet was quite astonished if she could say anything, her face certainly told that tale. However, she could produce an answer without even really thinking.

"Well, I'm agnostic. I don't personally have a theistic purview, though, since I can't disprove the existence of some sort of omniscient being looking over everyone and everything I just tend to stay quiet, Ms. Trixie." Violet answered, with a little more hubris in her voice then she would've preferred. Trixie looked at her with a look of slight approval, she stuck out her lower lip and steadily nodded her head.

"Hmm, that's a good answer Trixie must admit. But I would like to continue additional discussion, a simple sentence will not suffice Trixie's appetite for interaction. Even if it is with the likes of you." Trixie spat. "Why don't you flat out just label yourself as an atheist? Being agnostic means that there is an iota of belief somewhere within you, being an atheist means that you have disregarded all possibility of there being a god, or gods."

"Well, like I said. I can't confirm his or her, or their existence, so as a result I am ambivalent on the matter." Violet reiterated. She was getting a little bit edgy now. "I'm sorry _darling," _She herself involuntarily cringed at using the epithet "darling" to address Trixie, in spite of that being an innate sanction of her dialect. "But I must really be on my way, I need to find Shira." Violet continued as she attempted to make her way past Trixie. But just as she was about to sidestep the Chinese girl; in one fluid motion, Trixie deftly swung the wooden shaft of her scythe, cutting through the air like a sword and slamming the end of it into Violet's temple. The fashionista cried out in immense pain and for a moment could only see red stars. She sprawled to the ground and tried to recuperate despite the blinding pain building up in her head (An idle part of her hoped it wouldn't leave a bruise); her trusty baseball bat leaving her grip upon impact. Before she could react further, she could feel something cold and metallic brush up against her warm skin, just underneath her chin. Forcing open her eyes despite the tremendous aching, she could see the scythe's falcate at her throat, and the scythe's owner glaring with unmitigated contempt and malevolent glee.

"Nuh-uh Ms. Belle." Trixie stated. "You see, I not only wanted to ask you about your personal purviews regarding religion, but I also wanted something else from the likes of you, since you're so close to Sato, Trixie figures that she can get you to squeal her name, rat her out, lure her to Trixie." She explained. "So if you would be so kind as to call her, that'd be just great."

Huh? Violet didn't have a great comprehension on what was just told to her. What Trixie had said echoed over and over in her head. She was planning on using her as a hostage? Just to get Mitsumi out here? Could she really believe that?

"You see, my real gripe is with Ms. Tojo, not you. You have never accosted me directly, so I don't have any true will to end your pitiful life just now. Trixie realizes however that you can prove to be a valuable asset by coaxing Mitsumi to come find you where she can become easy pickings for me. I mean, as inherently evil and god-forsaken this '_Survivor_ with guns' shit is. It has also granted Trixie with a golden opportunity to take her prolonged and much deserved vengeance on that Jap bitch." She declared with a palpable amount of venom as she pressed the blade even harder against Violet's neck.

"The way I see it, it's a perfect plan! I've seen how close you two are, you and her and her other four cronies are like a female circle jerk of weakness and pity. If push turns to shove, I'm sure one or more of you will be bound to show up. So with you as my hostage, Mitsumi will come around, I'll get my revenge, and I'll let you live…for now. It's a win-win for both of us the way I see it, she dies, you get to see your sister again, Trixie finally gets what she's been longing for all this time." She elaborated further, at this point she was actually breaking skin on Violet, it wasn't a mortal, or even serious wound. It was a flesh wound at very worst, but it was still enough to draw a faint amount of blood and cause the doubled over girl to wince in pain.

"So, are you going to do it? Or is Trixie going to have to _really_ hurt you, or worse?" She threatened. Her eyes told a tale, promising the young dressmaker a menagerie of horrible fates if she didn't comply with her demands.

This time, Violet stopped breathing. What she was suggesting was… It was horrible! It was the threat of violence piled on top of forcing her to be a red herring! A fucking (_pardon my language._) trap! A perfect plan? It was an absolutely disgusting plan! One she refused to be a part of. There was no way she would willingly participate!

Thankfully though, despite the chance that Trixie could have sliced her neck open like a gutted fish, she sat back up; an action that Trixie didn't seem to disapprove, for she continued to leave Violet's neck intact (except for the minor laceration mind you). Her breathing hadn't slowed and neither had her heart rate. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take.

"Well, I'm waiting." Trixie said impatiently. She retreated the scythe's sharp edge from Violet's perimeter and used the blade to clean dirt out of her normally clean and polished fingertips. _How revolting! _

Violet simply had no idea what to do. She stood upright and backed away to where she could see her bat lying just within the boundaries of her peripheral vision. She continued to eye the girl who was intent on taking her hostage as a way to control her friend Mitsumi. The thought would never stop disgusting her. Using her as a way to force Mitsumi out into the playing field. It was just too unthinkable! The sweat cresting on her brow traced a number of lines down her face that only increased her nervousness and tension. It was getting into her eyes and making them sting. Normally she would find her perspiration to be absolutely repugnant, and would be more or less freaking out. But here she refused to raise a hand to wipe the sweat drops away. She just couldn't risk it, It was more important that she kept the girl on her tirade and not directing her warpath at her, then to have a panic attack over some natural, organic byproduct of human thermoregulation. She wouldn't be used like that! She would not become a tool to create violence! _Of all the things that could happen, this is, THE, WORST, POSSIBLE THING!_

For a moment she considered calling Mitsumi, perhaps that would buy her enough time to strike out on her own and elude this deranged megalomaniac. But no, there was no she could put another in harms way like that. She wanted, and needed to escape, but how? Violet was far from an athlete, even though she wasn't positive how dynamic Trixie was at sprints, she still thought that if she tried to run, the girl would undoubtedly catch up to her. With that large, and wicked looking scythe she possessed, heavens to Betsy would she want to risk that. Maybe if she could just get a little closer to her weapon…before she could launch a counterattack. Just one more step. Her heart was pulsating like a time bomb within her ribcage, she had to keep herself calm, no matter how intense the pressure was. If she panicked, Trixie _would _attack.

"Come on, what's taking so long you prude?" Trixie asked fretfully. "You know what, if you're not going to do something, I'll force the choice for you!" Trixie added as she poised the scythe above her head. "Once you're dead I'll hunt down Nagasaki and all of her companions, including that pussy-whipped boy toy of hers. What's his name? Leonard!"

Violet audibly gasped at the mention of her dear Spikey-Wikey. It was almost enough to distract her from the fact Trixie was now about to accost her. She could almost reach out for her bat.

"Is there a god? Well, here's your big chance to find out," Trixie muttered, ready to strike. "Once you're dead, you'll know once and for all."

Violet tightened her hands into fists. She couldn't rush it. Another step would give her enough time to reach her weapon, or so she hoped. If she could keep Trixie on his tirade against religion, he could buy himself a little more time to edge closer to her duffel bag. But it seemed like the girl had gotten all her hatred out – or soon would, with her on the bad end of that scythe.

"By the way, once in the afterlife, say hi to Mitsumi for me." Trixie jeered.

Just as Trixie made an advancement, Violet was able to grapple her trusty Bat into her untrained, and pampered hands. The crude black electric grip-tape felt almost adhesive in her hands. But nevertheless, she attempted to bring it up into something of a professional baseball player's stance. Trying to put some weight on her back leg and follow the garbled instructions of her softball coach from Ten-something years ago. _Many players prefer to have their hands slightly off the back shoulder. Having your hands off your shoulder and at the top of the strike zone puts them in the best position for swinging the bat. It's very difficult for any hitter to catch up to a high fastball and hit anything but a pop fly if their hands start below the ball. What the fuck?_

Trixie scoffed snobbishly. _"_Ha! You think you could possibly overpower me with that? I hope you're ready." She said as she made her way forward.

Violet hoped so too.

Her mind screamed in panic as Trixie charged her. As the grassland separating the two got shorter and shorter, Violet raised her bat with a hearty yell and swung with all her might, it would've been all too easy to cave Trixie's skull in, it wasn't pleasant or something Violet wanted to do despite Trixie openly proclaiming she was going to kill her and her friends, but hey, When In Rome… Trixie would get her head smashed in.

If she had stayed put that was.

Instead she ducked underneath the strike and swiftly swung the blade in a downward arc. Violet stepped back and let go of her bat, for some reason she couldn't quite place it seemed like her hands were on fire, though she had a vague sense that something was wrong. Raising her hands to her face she could clearly see that the source of the pain was something far simpler then immolation. Her fingers were missing. With that last strike, Trixie managed to cut off her fingers. All of them. Upon that discovery, Violet let out a vociferous, almost unnatural cry to the sky in pure terror and unmitigated agony as she watched her blood pump out of her severed digits with torrential fluidity. Stumbling backwards from the Chinese girl, the shock of the whole ordeal caused Violet to double over and vomit explosively all that was in her stomach into a newly created puddle of her own blood. She wanted to scream, and cry. Though the screaming was accomplished very easily with near inhuman vigor, she couldn't bring herself to cry for some arcane reason.

Stumbling back further, she saw Trixie holding the scythe and walking towards her with her bloodied tool, a bright smile on her face and red all over her hands.

Following through, she levied her falcate with a horizontal flash of silver into Violet's abdomen, eliciting another cry of unimaginable pain from the model. She cooed as she drove the weapon further in, which in response gave Violet more screams with a renewed vigor and a gradual increase of volume and vehemence which actually overpowered Trixie's loud moans of sadistic pleasure. Trixie kept shaking the wooden staff of the gardening tool to retract it out of the fashionista's body as fire erupted all over and blood gushed gratuitously and splattered on the both of them, Trixie finally finished the dirty deed by roughly drawing the scythe out of her body, opening her stomach cavity. She retracted the scythe completely, dragging with it a decent portion of Violet's innards. She screamed with all her might as blood congealed and poured out of her mouth. Her guts unraveled out like lifeless snakes that hissed out blood, acid, and digested food and other human bits. She fell forward with her intestines by her feet. She would've cried out more upon impact, but her vocal chords felt shredded from her earlier screaming. For now, it just felt as though a thousand scalpels were tunneling out of where her stomach used to be. Stomach acid sizzled into what remained of her abdomen and began to amalgamate and congeal gruesomely with the profuse amount of blood already on the ground and gushed and splattered over her.

Turning herself on her side was a Herculean effort, but she managed anyway. With her body redlining due to her imminent exsanguination and impending death, her vision was gradually fading into obscurity and was still consumed in pain no one should ever know. Delirious due to blood loss, she was only vaguely aware the woman that had done this to her was standing by her, looking up. She could only see Trixie's sadistic grin as she was towering over the mortally wounded girl.

"Hey, you're my first. That should be an honor for someone like you." Trixie heinously chided. "And look on the bright side, at least now you'll know once and for all of Epicurus was correct or not." Trixie then turned to a brief look of contemplation. Seeing the weak and huddled creature writhing in pain, Trixie knew she should by all rights be feeling compassion. Instead, she just felt disdain and glee. This bitch would learn her lesson, and she would bleed for it. She would bleed, and she would die for it. The ultimate lesson. She always wondered what her last words would be to a person she was about to kill, and thinking of nothing better, she smiled and spoke cruelly, "And don't worry, just to show you I'm not a complete monster, Trixie will send your parents your tongue after she wins this thing. Oh, and don't worry about that strident sister of yours, she'll meet the same fate as you and you will both be reunited. Or maybe not. Who knows, who cares right?" she asked with callousness

Violet wanted to weep. The mention of her stepsister, someone she'll never see again got to her. Then Trixie's pompousness and arrogance struck her. She actually felt a new emotion aside from grief and misery. Anger. She wanted to rise up and strangle Trixie with her own intestines, but considering how that was currently impossible she invested what remained of her strength do enact one last sign of vitriol, and that was spitting on Trixie's shoes. Her spit alone told her the obvious, that she was dying. Her saliva was almost entirely red from being mixed with her blood. Trixie could only snicker at such a feeble act.

"You pitiful fool, you think Trixie will accept your anger? I'm leaving now to kill you're friends. Good luck in death, bitch." Trixie chastised with utter scorn.

Those where the last words she spoke before she calmly and methodically unloaded Violet's equipage into her own duffel bag and left. She considered taking the bat at first, but remembering how superior her own weaponry was, quickly discarded the idea.

Now Violet was finally left alone to wallow in her own suffering, in peace. She knew it wouldn't last much longer; even though she was heavily distraught with never seeing her friends and family ever again, one part of her was still grateful that her torment would end soon. The blazing agony was starting to convert into a sensation of euphoria she was quite certain she never had, nor ever will experience again. _Shock, right? Losing too much blood... _

She cursed herself, alternately wanting to cry and seriously missing her family. It was a stupid mistake.

With the last breath that she could really manage, Violet sputtered loudly while coughing on her own blood, "Mom, Dad, Shira, I'm sorry."

With a further inspiration she giggled, finding the irony in what she was about to say.

"Live long and prosper."

She also found irony in how in the past she would've fainted at seeing this much blood or any sort dirtying substances. But now, she truly just didn't give a damn.

She almost found it funny how such tripe social mores dissolved once her feet were in the grave; and in spite of her religious affiliations (or lack of them). She found herself doing the most antonymous action possible for an atheist, praying.

_Please…God, if you exist. Please save my friends. Or if they do have to die, at least make sure they don't suffer at the hands of that bitch. Make their deaths peaceful, or quick. And especially painless, just show some mercy for fucks sake. Please? Heh, I guess there really are no atheists in foxholes, huh._

With that, she collapsed further into docile, wheezing on her own blood. She somehow managed to pull her wallet free from her back pocket with some trial and error, flipping through the papers to find what mattered. Happier times, mom, dad, herself and her sister Shira at a Rolling Stones concert, the stop they had in Tacoma. They were all smiling, laughing, all wearing their Lips and Tongue T-shirts and sunglasses. They saw some crazy things go down in the mosh pit during Sympathy for the Devil, the acrid smell of reefer percolating the air... it was great. She ate so much she almost puked. Memories. A relic of a time long gone._ All the way back in 2005, who would've thought how uncouth I was back then? How we all were? It's just so mawkish…I wish things were still like that; I don't mean right now either, I wish things would've stayed like that…?  
_

She folded the picture in half and put it in her mouth, clamping down hard on the film as the life began to drain from Girl #24.

Roughly two minutes later, Violet Belle died of hypovolemic shock and massive organ failure...with a smile on her face. She still kept her family close.


	11. Hour 5: 47 Contestants Remaining

Trixie Song, a.k.a. Girl # 9 was rather satisfied with herself. Unlike many of the other contestants, she hadn't doubted her abilities even once since the Ninth Annual Battle Royale's inception. From the moment she heard the previous winner detail what they were going to have to do in the next three days, she had no reservations whatsoever about what she had to do. Her survival would have to come at the cost of forty-nine others; and quite simply put Trixie valued herself above any other teenager. It was a selfish thought, and she had no trouble acknowledging that. She knew that this game wouldn't be nearly as bad for her as the others…she just had no idea it would be so much fun.

When she had walked into the game in the earliest moments, she right away resolved that she would make it out of this…no other option was acceptable. More over, she also had an objective aside from just winning, but since accomplishing the former would also mean the latter, she could only aspire to this goal. Her goal was something of a hunting game, and the prey she was gunning after? Mitsumi Sato and her crew none other. _Those damn bitches, spited Trixie for the last time._

Some microscopic part of Trixie's psychosis told her that envy was her greatest sin, and that it was her entire reason for hating that clique. And that part of her mind was correct, that really was the entire reason she detested them. They all collectively seemed to best her at everything, no matter what it was, one of them would always manage to top her…it infuriated her to no end. Mitsumi got better grades than her and was more well liked, to most guys Violet and Flora were better looking; not that Trixie wasn't endowed in the aesthetics department (she was far from ugly and in fact very pretty, just the nasty attitude and egotistical propensities put most guys off), it's just that inexplicably more guys fawned over those two than her at any and every given time. Rain and April were much more athletic, and _all _of them were far more well liked by the student body. And it still pissed her off to the limits of her consciousness.

She had done everything In her power to make sure she wasn't second tier to those cunts, studied her ass off to contend with Mitsumi, took up gymnastics and martial arts to compete with Rain and April, and all over tried to bolster her physical appearances…which to the student body saw limited success. It just wasn't fair. It really wasn't.

She always detested losing, being behind another and outshined. It was a burning, pathological hatred on a visceral level that, Trixie could admit without hesitation was the very bane of her existence, and a pack of bitches six-fold that could all do that as if they were some sort of super-organism…To think it was finally her time. Time to shine. Months of wait, months of waiting for the opportunity to get away with murder, it all came down to the next three days. Here she knew she could prove her worth, outlive all the bitches, demonstrate exactly how proficient she was to dealing death and wasting lives. It already boosted her confidence immensely disposing of that Violet bitch. _She was all just make up and illusions anyways, nothing natural about her beauty, nothing like Trixie. She probably had enough Botox and STD's running through her blood to drown a horse while poisoning a small village. Course that goes without saying._

Thinking about it, Trixie could honestly say she felt absolutely no worth for anyone in the game with her. Further driving the point home, they wouldn't even need to be in a Battle Royale for her to think this way; if murdering anybody who had ever co-existed with her on the high school grapevine had no ramifications and would instantly allow her on her way, she would have done so without a second thought.

And a direct corollary to that mentality, the Battle Royale was the same way. It was hardly surprising that Trixie had found herself ready to charge through the game with wild abandon.

Sure she didn't have a gun, but what she did have was perhaps far more imperative than any meager firearm. Initiative. What she lacked in firepower thus far, she easily made up for in confidence; compensating with spades in conviction for. She had to win this game, of that she had no uncertainties whatsoever. There was no way she would let anybody rip her survival out of her hands. She would only allow for one outcome, and that was her ultimate victory at whatever cost. No matter who else had to die, she had to win. Failure was simply not an option.

But she held no illusions that it would be easy. Victory would be certain, that she had no reason to doubt, but it would definitely come at the cost of a few scars. That was why she had to be cautious. Always stay on the safe side of things. Of course, certain liberties could be taken to ensure her stay was quite leisurely around these parts.

Earlier when she had checked the pack she had neglected for so long. It had inside her lowly supplies. Six MRE's, government supplied food to the military forces, cheap stuff that tasted like cardboard dried out for about a month, or in other words, like Chuck E. Cheeses pizza crust. Trixie snickered aloud at the thought. Water bottles, only a couple, but if rationed out would work for the duration. Dehydration wouldn't be an issue, something how humans could go up to five days without water. Dehydration was certainly not something viable on deleterious health hazards. Would not be an issue, moving on.

She had gone through the rest of her pack, pulling out the flashlight, compass, and the plastic pouch on a chain that held the map of the island. Unzipping the pouch, she found the map and a small pen to go with it. There was also a three-page leaflet revealing all the names of her fellow classmates. A dark smile ran across her glossed lips as she examined the names of all who would fall to her blade...

And that brings us to the weapon. Admittedly, it initially looked like a simple wooden staff of three feet in length and a curving protrusion covered in black leather that also extended for another two feet perpendicular from the staff.

Pulling the leather sheath back from the blade, she could feel the power, a power that she had never felt before and was sure she was destined for. The blade was a thing of beauty, shiny chrome silver and sharper than shark teeth. If god himself were to touch the blade, he would be cut, and Trixie marveled at the power. She rolled the staff around in her hand, gauging the weight and gravity of the bladed weapon. She touched the blade with one finger. Definitely deadly sharp, and it sent a shiver down her spine. Pressing her finger harder against it, she drew blood, and from the pain, pleasure. She closed her eyes and moaned, feeling the pleasure radiate through her finger, up her arm and down her spine to her loins. Almost as if the scythe was a direct portal to her pleasure center that would always press all the right buttons, her clitoris being the best one.

It was easy really, and she had been proud to be one of the few to draw blood early in the game. She had seen Violet running around, and she knew she was an easy target. She was by a long shot the weakest-willed within the potpourri of pathetic, running around like a chicken with its head cut off; no clue or awareness for her surroundings whatsoever with all the grace and majesty of a pack of epileptic lemurs. She seemed to be screaming to the heavens for an angel, and well, she got Trixie instead.

Trixie had cut off Violet's digits and disemboweled her in one well-executed (_Pardon the pun_) maneuver, it was so surreal and amazing, she couldn't wait to see what other ways she could dispense pain to appease to her sadistic side.

It took her a moment of afterglow to realize that she was still in the game and that she would stand a better chance of survival if she didn't stay where she was. She took a moment to regain her bounds, taking up her weapon, and the two packs. It took her a little while of wandering about to find a safe place in a small grove of apple trees for her to slow down.

She pulled down some of the fruit and ate away, loving the taste like she had never loved anything before. She pulled down several more and placed them in her backpack.

That left only one task be done before she finally got going. Her clothes. Her posh outfit had been soaked in blood and bits of Violet. Murder was such messy work, why did the human body have to have such brightly colored fluids? Then again, it's not that she minded the color so much, but the smell. Initially blood had a very staunch metallic stench to it, but that coupled with the septic smell of Violet's digestive tract made the odor near unbearable. And with the sun on the rise, she knew something had to be done. She could already see the purplish hues of the outer rims of the night, the morning sky vanquishing the darkness with gradual shades of orange, and hydrangea lavender.

Reaching around her neck, Trixie pulled off her bloodstained cloak and lackadaisically jammed it into her bag. She muttered to herself as she saw her dress shirt too had been soaked through. No, no, that would simply not do. Taking it, she also stuffed it alongside her sullied cloak. Her tank top was still reasonably clean, with a mild spattering of pink across the stomach, but it would do quite nicely. Her skirt too was an issue. It was satin, normally perfectly fitting and chic for a girl like her. But in spite of how much she loved it, she still had to admit it could pose a problem, due to it extended down to her calves and inhibited her walking ability. Some work with the scythe made short work of the majority of the skirt, leaving enough to keep her modest (unless she sat down or spread her legs for some reason) and give her mobility.

If there was a boy around, she was sure he'd be gawking at her in her short skirt and tight tank top. He'd be too focused on her voluptuous frame and formidable "assets" and probably wouldn't make the first move. It was perfect, simply perfect.

Humming the tune to some Fleetwood Mac song she couldn't quite remember the lyrics to, Trixie jogged away from the bushel of fruit trees with a feeling of utter satisfaction and rapture. She had already killed one of Sato's crew before even the first announcement, she couldn't wait until she got another.

* * *

They'd been hyping it up for nearly a month. Chalking off the days until the event was to premiere. With each passing day, the boy grew more and more excited. It was supposed to be one of the coolest things ever to be on TV. They had waited long enough. This year they had set up a game in a small island off the coast of Massachusetts, kidnapped a group of New York high schoolers and let them loose with a bunch of weapons. Of course this was the eighth time in American chronology that this has happened, but it was far from the platitude, it was in fact one of the bloodiest and intense games to date.

Thankfully the boy had it all on pay-per-view, three-day viewing package, and planned to watch as much of it as possible. A boy by the name of Nicholas Delaney had watched it all gleefully. True, it had been a marathon, and still having not really used to staying up for three days straight (_it's been three days, right?_) before was really beginning to take its toll on him, but it had been worth it. It had _all _been worth it. The game was better than anyone could have expected.

Well, he couldn't take all of the credit; sugary drinks and caffeine could only take one so far. On occasion his body overpowered his mind in the stranglehold for sleep. Thankfully he had some friends that were accompanying him to not only watch the games themselves, but also inform him of any major occurrences that played out when he had to nap. But he had managed to pull it off. He'd gotten to bring the big-screen down to the basement and set up something of a non-stop Battle Royale party with a plethora of junk food to keep themselves from getting hungry. It had all worked out very well.

This game had some great contenders and hunters to reckon with, featured some of the most intrinsically violent, cunning, and overall fascinating cast yet. There was Darwin Nielsen (Boy #2) whom everyone thought wouldn't survive past Day 1 due to his less then large stature and only having a golf club to his name, that was until he beat some girls skull in and got his hands on a Glock and proved to be one of the greatest sharpshooters in the games history, as well as an extremely adroit manipulator. Exposed others insecurities and fears to let their guard down before disposing them with haste via bullet to the brain. Another prominent contender was Patricia Thomas (Girl #11) who dispatched fellow contestants with great skill using her trusty flare gun and a filet knife. Then there was the cowardly and somewhat timorous, yet still lethal Jacob Zhao (Boy #21) who camped out in a tree fortress for the majority of the game, picking people off by blowing them to pieces with his designated M79 grenade launcher. And another favorite to win was Julia Friedland (Girl #4), armed with a Smith and Wesson handgun and a sickle, she was easily one of the most prominent players of the game, systematically killing off her friends with stealth, precision, and sometimes just downright ferocity.

"God that was so fucking awesome." Nick exclaimed at around midnight in real time, and at Hour 13; Day 3, game time. He had just watched Hayden Rodriguez (Boy#14) get blown to bits by one of Jacob's grenades from multiple angles. The cameras that captured the scene repeated the blaze of gory from several different angles, and zoomed out to capture the body parts (and bits of body parts) as they flew outward every which way. Which prompted him to lean forward on his large sofa to further immerse himself in the instant replays. It was now down to seven contestants. It was definitely coming down to the wire.

"Yah, certainly was. 'Is death may've been rather anti-climatic, but god damn was that fun ta watch!" A girl beside him spoke in an unmistakably obvious Missourian accent.

"Yeah Abby, It sucks, I thought Hayden would've at least made it to the top four before perishing. At least he went out like a badass, besides, an even more capable contestant will take his place instead." Another boy beside the girl reasoned contently.

"What're ya'll talking about Milleek? Towelhead. He went out like a yella-bellied loser! He didn't even get ta see it comin'! Just prancin' around then KABLAM! Dead." The country girl refuted, quite upset at "Hayden's" volatile misfortune.

"It's Mallick, Abigail. Mallick. Besides, even if this didn't happen, he likely would've been removed by Julia, or Darwin." Mallick responded.

"I guess that still makes a lil' sense, but it still sucks though. " Abigail said, dispirited. But suddenly perking her head up, "I woulda wish'd for him to die from a ninja sword, or a pistol round from a mile roun' the way, or somethin' like that." She added. "Besides, this is like tha fourth time Jon shot a person with his cannon. It's a lil' old now."

"Look Abby, that was pretty awesome no matter what happened killed him. I mean we are only left with the cream of the crop here. So no matter the cause of death, this point into the game. No one is going to die a loser's death. All that remains are fisticuffs and blood to be spilt by the gallons, 'aight?" Mallick assured the pouty girl.

"Yeah, ah guess ya'lls right. Ah reckon' many of the previous deaths were satisfy'n as well. I just hope Jon dies too, painfully. Ah cannot _stand_ cowards like that." She seethed, her southern drawl in full flare with her bickering. She pointed to the screen, kept a broad smile, "Ah'd totally kick ass in something like that. Totally." She boasted proudly.

"You think you could win a Battle Royale?" Nick said, his voice sounding rather amused. Practically every guy (and more than a few girls) at school would constantly talk about what they would do if they were ever in a Battle Royale. So many talking strategy, how many people they would try to get together, how many guns they would grab and what type, how many people they would kill. It was all bullshit as far as Nick was concerned. Most people sent into the game would probably have something of a breakdown and cry for their mommies (like a lot of players in the first, and a few in every season do) just waiting to die. Most of the guys who said that they would totally win the Battle Royale... well, Nick usually did his best not to laugh. He didn't want to laugh at Abigail though; she probably wouldn't like it very much (_and she punches hard too_).

At this point, Nick interjected. "Yeah, neither do I. But I'm almost positive he won't win, he's almost out of grenades and has to come down sometime." Nick explained with a yawn. "He has no other weapons, and we've already observed what a genuine pussy this guy is. He has no redeeming features of any kind other then sheer luck and his weapon, if it hadn't been for that. He likely would've died all the way back on day one. Though in spite of all I just said, it was still damn good entertainment seeing him blow people up." He said matter-of-factly, as he cracked his knuckles with a rewarding _POP!_

Tired, and punch drunk beyond all measure, Nick saw something he assumed to be a miracle. Vacancy in the bathroom. The boy stood, stretching his aching limbs and feeling his joints pop one at a time. "Now if you'll excuse me guys, I'm gonna go rest for a bit, if you guys crash as well, just press record. Wake me up when it's down to the final two, 'kay?"

His two companions, Abigail Macintosh and Mallick Nadim both nodded in compliance with affirmative "Okay's" and then turned their heads back around to the large plasma-screen TV; just in time to watch in awe as Patricia flung a Molotov cocktail into Jacob's tree fort in HD.

Nick was exhausted, eyelids feeling like they each weighed a hundred tons. But still he stood, determined to make that last march before the game ended. _Just go to the bathroom, wake yourself up, grab another Coke or ten and watch this thing wind down to the end. It's gotta be soon now, right? Gotta be soon, and then we're gold-_

Ten steps from the bathroom the whole world went black. Nick was vaguely aware that he was falling, but in his mind there was nothing he could do. Everything began to swirl, his vision went blurry, and the carpet began to rush up rather quickly to meet him. _Three days, three days without sleep, right?_

* * *

Nick Delaney a.k.a. Boy #23 still couldn't believe that was almost an entire year ago, the most recent time he had seen a BR program on it's premiere day in the summer of 2008. _Good times, damn good times._ Once more, what he still found incredulous was how he himself had the privilege to be included in this year's program! It was a gift from the heavens!

He was on the prowl; he had been ever since leaving the starting bunker. It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that knew Nick that he would play. That he would see to the deaths of all forty-eight (forty-six now, unbeknownst to him) other contestants to ensure his own survival, or that he would do so with a good amount of enthusiasm, or that the hunt would prove to be the most exhilarating thing to ever happen to him. He was armed with a Beretta 92FS semi-automatic pistol, a pretty damn good weapon in his humble opinion. Could punch holes through solid rock, and with aim that was basically point and click.

Almost everyone knew he was going to play, considering that he was completely infatuated with anything and everything Battle Royale, it only took a single overheard conversation to figure that out. Multiple students had nearly ran into him within the first five hours of the game, including: Roger Lombardi a.k.a. Boy#2, Laurel Cruz a.k.a. Girl#14, and Andre Sullivan a.k.a. Boy#24 (to name a few). They were lucky, had they been caught by Nick, they most likely would've received several 9mm bullets to the chest, bleeding them out within seconds and cutting their time in the program unexpectedly short.

Things weren't going as well as he liked them. He was one of the top contenders of the Battle Royale; he knew that much, and it wasn't a stretch to say he could even win it all. Given the right set of circumstances, of course, which at present was definitely not the way he wanted it to be. Sure he had a gun and was perfectly healthy, but he still had yet to encounter any other contestants except for the briefest of glimpses. He would've given pursuit, but they all somehow managed to disappear before he could find them.

Cocking the hammer of the Beretta in and out, partly out of tension and partly just to find something to do, Nick looked around as he kept up the walk. _Keep on the move, sooner or later you'll run into somebody. Still...sixty-seven hours for you to work your magic, nothing to worry about, is there? Plenty of time, plenty of other people around, by all rights there should be no shortage of casualties. Come on, there's gotta be somebody around here, where's everybody gone? It's like the end of the world. Probably is, at least to the bunch of us caught in this game. It's the end of the world, Michael Stipe's not afraid, and you're feeling fine. You're feeling fine, absolutely fine, now if somebody will show their asses up and get killed, that'll be absolutely fine, won't it?_

"Yeah, it'll all be fine." Nick muttered to himself. He normally wasn't one to talk to himself, but the prospect of the Battle Royale freaked out even this reality show geek.

He thought about all the other contestants that were in this with him, the vast majority he either didn't like or just didn't know. _I mean there is Abigail and Mallick, maybe I should've called them up and we could've united to be a kickass tag team of unstoppable force._ It was true all three of them were Battle Royale junkies and had wasted countless weekends and weekdays watching all eight previous seasons on-demand and in reruns to the point of saturation. With all three of them combining their knowledge and affinity for the game, they had the potential to really wreck the competition.

_But as all three of us know, there are always drawbacks to alliances, more people to keep tab of, constant paranoia, threat of dissidence, and that constant lingering suspicion that they will stab you in the back first chance they get. I know that, and they know that as well. Heck I may just be the one to do them in at the end of this, it's a shame, they all could've been potential contenders for this thing. _

Eh, Abigail was a closet BR fan; she usually kept her obsession for it underneath the wraps except when around the Arab and the nerd. _Gotta keep up that whole innocent southern belle façade, huh Abby? Though that's effectively gone down the shitter since she killed David, looking over his remains. Good work Abby, decent first kill. Surprised you beat me to it._

Nick looked up through the collage of foliage produced by the nebulous web of branches and leaves far above his head and could make out a sky fusion of gentle lavender, paired with darker, more robust cerulean. Already the sun was starting to inch across the horizon. Nothing obvious, but light rays of purple stretching above the island, already casting an eerie glow overhead.

"Man, there's gotta be someone around here." Nick groaned.

And almost as if a godsend, he began to here something. Something that couldn't exist in nature, certainly not a lower beast by any means. It was a tacit murmuring. As he got closer to investigate, it became more and more apparent it was human. A voice, two voices. _Bonus! Double kill!_

The gun he cradled in his hand was a powerful talisman, letting him rain fire down upon all who dared to stand as competition. There was a pair now. There were two, he could kill them easily. Point, click and fire, the pistol would do the rest. Exiting the tree line, he opened fire on the two girls he saw and smiled a toothy grin.

* * *

To most of the Battle Royale's contestants, survival was the utmost imperative. There were also those who opted to play in the slim chance that they may emerge as the victor. There were the sober-minded ones who merely took shelter and sought to hide out for as long as conceivably feasible. Then those who teamed up under the premise of safety in numbers and attempt to delay the inevitable. There were those who acted without regard for personal safety, there were those who had lost their minds, there were those who simply had a different outlook, and then there were those who only wanted to get intoxicated and die soaking in alcohol.

Lily Marsh, a.k.a. Girl #4, fell into the inebriated category. She knew in no uncertain terms that her time in the game would not be long, and as any other Cyndi Lauper wannabe, she had decided the best way to spend her last hours was to drown herself in alcohol. And while she knew that would be very easy to accomplish, she could only settle herself with the mini-bar at Room 313 at the Zen Hotel.

In reality though, it was still quite copacetic. The refrigerator held a rather commendable supply of liquors and spirits, as well as several bottles of carbonated water and sodas. In addition to that, she found a selection of assorted nuts, chocolate bars, dried fruit, candy trinkets, and practically every brand of cigarettes she had ever heard of. She didn't expect any room service for the duration of her stay, but Lily had a good feeling she was going to have a nice time here – however short it would turn out to be, and with her assigned weapon, she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Sipping from a cocktail eloquently known as "Sex on the Beach" as she worked, Lily checked through the iron sights of her Ruger Mini-14 rifle upon the windowsill, practicing her aim through the sights. Their room overlooked the front of the hotel; if anybody tried to approach she could easily scare them off with a narrow shot.

"You're good with that gun," said Shira Sweet-Belle in awe, a.k.a. Girl #8, a.k.a. Lily's current roommate.

Lily wasn't somebody she usually (never was a more appropriate way of putting it) hung out with, because the female population of her social circles consisted solely of rich bitches such as herself. On the other hand, Shira was not her kind of people. Having always been known as somewhat of an immature goody-two-shoes to most people, Shira had never been a popular person until she joined the student choir and quickly became a rising star. Ever since, she had been practically inseparable with the rest of them. In the Battle Royale, pairing up with the girl was something she never would've expected in a thousand years (especially considering how she and her group of popular girls would pick on Shira and co.), but while her Mini-14 ensured safety from afar, Shira's Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver was definitely something that was nice to have around. As well, she could use having another girl around to ease the loneliness. Shira was somebody to talk to, somebody who would watch her back, and at worst she would make cannon fodder should the need come.

"Yeah, i've got as much experience with rifles as with the bedroom," Lily replied as she took her eye away from the gun and instead added more cranberry juice into the martini glass she was holding.

"Oh, really?" Shira asked nervously. Shira was a virgin and for some reason the prospect of sex still made her feel uneasy despite being a high school senior. Shira sounded pacified by that response, but purely for the sake of conversation, Lily decided to further elaborate.

"Yeah, my pop made me learn all this gun crap when he would take me to the great outdoors," she said as she sipped the cocktail some more, "wanna hear about it?"

"Sure, that sounds interesting." Shira idly responded while checking her phone for any updates about her sister. _Dang it, still nothing. Where are you Violet?_ Shira was now seriously beginning to get worried, she always was, but now it felt urgent. _It's been over an hour since her last text._

"My dad's been taking me out on hunting trips ever since I was like, eight or nine. I think it's got something to do with the fact that he's always wanted a son but my mother refuses to have more than one kid, and so he seems to want to raise me as the son he never had, y'know? Never seen him more disappointed than when he caught me listening to Bon Jovi over Rush."

Despite her concern, Shira still snorted at that, and Lily smiled a bit. "Anyway, he'd take me out to some hunting range, obviously with some sort of game to make pop shots at with our scoped rifles. And then we'd spend the whole day hunting down deer and pheasants and... You know, other kinds of woodland creatures that were large enough to take a bullet well. I never really knew what kinds of animals a bunch of them were, just that it was legal to murder them as long as you had a permit."

Shira grimaced slightly at that last remark before unscrewing the cap of a water bottle and taking a swig.

"Yeah, it took me a while to get used to the idea of killing animals with a gun. I mean, it's still a life, even if we can't exactly relate due to species differences n' stuff. But once I got used to it, it was actually kind of fun, sometimes we'd even bring home some of the game and my mom would just get butthurt and talk about how gross it was and that she wasn't cooking it, so my dad would just skin it himself and-"

Lily looked as though she wanted to continue that foray, but instead stopped mid-sentence to take a swig from her drink before she continued, "It's actually kind of cool, firing a hunting rifle. It makes this helluva noise and jolts back something fierce, so you gotta hold tight onto it, and a moment later you see the deer fall. Feels almost like a boxer slugging you in the shoulder, but with practice it get's way easier to handle. There's blood and all that shit, but seeing as it's a living creature you can't avoid that. Most of the time I go for the spot behind the shoulders, hits right where their vital organs are so they die quick. It's not like in Call of Duty or shit where they die instantly after taking a bullet to the gut, they really can feel the pain, which is why i want to aim for the instant death regions. Some people I know aim for the neck, which can end up missing the spine and the poor thing just suffers a lot before it finally dies."

Sniffing, Lily emptied the flask and looked around. Shira was sitting on one of the beds with a strange look on her face, and her eyes were even stranger.

"You know something else that's interesting?" Lily asked idly.

"Hmm?"

"Sometimes when I'm abducted and taken to the firing range versus a hunting field due to snow and shitty weather by dad, I actually see that camel jockey Mallick over there with his mom blasting away with their guns...ya' think that means anything?" Lily inquired, just before downing a shot glass of Maker's Mark.

"I dunno," Shira said simply. Looking around the room torpidly as she searched for the proper thing to say. "Well, he knows how to use a gun, like you...but I don't think that'll mean anything unless he get's his hands on one. Are you asking me if i think he'll play?"

Lily just shrugged her shoulders before polishing the rifles stock perfunctorily.

"Maybe he will, I've heard he's a BR nerd like Nick, but perhaps tamer. Who knows. Anyone could play, really."

"What, even me?" Lily slurred.

"No, I mean, you could still I guess...but...I figure if you were...you would have shot me behind the shoulders the moment you saw me." Shira reasoned.

"Heh, I guess you're right..." Lily responded.

Silence captivated the two girl for a few more moments.

"I never knew that about you," Shira finally said, "I never hunt or do anything interesting, too messy. But, it's wonderful how you seem so interesting. Maybe it's just the way you tell it but I never knew that about hunting, or that you're actually a pretty cool person."

Lily blushed slightly, yet still remained reticent for quite some time, not sure of how to respond. Ultimately it was Shira who broke the silence.

"You know, in spite of our pasts, and even though I can tell you're a much better person then you are on the surface; it is much safer here with shelter and two guns. But I really have to go. I haven't heard anything from Violet in almost an hour and a half now! I'm really worried for her sake. So I've decided I'm going to part ways now, though it was great getting to know you, Lily." Shira spoke sentimentally. Lily was still a little bit shocked, that extra soliloquy really drove the nail in. She only stared dumbfounded at the other girl.

Shira really meant it though, back in Cold Rivers when she and her were only secluded within their own cliques Shira and Lily would never have even considered each other as little more than social adversaries roaming in the same hallways, maybe on Shira's end she'd see Lily as nothing more than a big fish in a small pond. But now, Shira could see the tragedy in how little she actually knew her before this Hell. Hidden behind their social cliques and fronts, desiring to be accepted like everyone else, it's tragic how only through a horrible, morbid event like this that all of their true colors were able to come out. Shira never would've guessed Lily be a prolific hunter and secret tomboy if the program never happened. Who knew what other secrets would be revealed to the world now that things were truly uninhibited, Shira wondered.

"Okay, I think – I _think_ – I've got everything I need in here," Shira said hesitantly as she shouldered the olive drab duffel sack. _Food, water, map, compass, flashlight, phone, gun and ammo, not to mention enough booze to flood a pub, think you got everything?_

Pecking the other girl on the cheek in a sign of affection, Shira added, "Promise me you'll stay safe, sweetheart, okay?"

"Of course, mom." Lily said sarcastically through an alcohol-induced haze, "Okay. So, I guess this is goodbye, huh?"

"I guess so," Shira said matter-of-factly. "Take care out there, okay? And if you do manage to get out of here, have a drink on me."

Lily raised her glass (currently holding a sizable portion of a Cement Mixer) and downed it in one gulp. Not holding a drink of her own, Shira instead mimed holding a shot glass and tossing it back in one fluid motion. With affected elation, she chimed as she lowered her imaginary glass, "Bottoms up!"

"Likewise," Lily smiled as she topped off her empty glass with freshly poured bourbon. "I hope you know I'll probably end up shitfaced, well I'm already shitfaced but in any case, I think in a couple more hours I'll be so drunk that my liver will shrivel up and kill me, so expect to hear my name blaring from the loudspeakers some time before tomorrow."

"You stay classy," Shira said good-naturedly, understanding what the other girl meant. Suicide and getting high were much better ways to go out in this game, compared to what would most likely be an unbelievably brief lifetime out there in the jungle. She didn't blame her, if it wasn't her sister out there, Shira was sure that she'd be drunk off her ass right now.

"By the way, Shira...two things." Lily slurred, garnering Shira's undivided attention. "One, if you ever need a place to crash, you can count on coming hear and such, if i'm not dead from alcohol poisoning, that is." Lily said with her voice dripping with dry wit (as well as liquor). Shira nodded correspondingly as Lily wrinkled her nose in seriousness. "And second, if you see Pamela...please just don't send her over, but, still give her best of luck, y'know."

Shira batted an eye at that, she really didn't understand that request, but if the time came, she had a feeling she would accommodate. "Okay, sure, no problem."

"Thanks," Lily said, "Good luck with everything," she added genuinely.

Lily then spoke more with surprising clarity. "It's a dangerous world out there, so you best take really good care of yourself."

"I will," Shira replied simply as she took off.

Making her way around the convoluted hallways of the 3rd floor of the Zen Hotel, Shira quickly found the stairway she and Lily had come up when they first found the place. It was portentous, but at least the stairwell was completely devoid of other people. Deciding that the stairs weren't going to get any shorter and that she had best gotten started if she wanted to get anything productive done, Shira got her butt in gear.

As she ran, the thoughts in her head kept reappearing at random intervals. Things that she hadn't wanted to think about in the game. She tried to suppress those ill-fated thoughts as she rushed through the encroaching wilderness, towards uncertainty and all that the Battle Royale had to offer. _I'll find you Violet, I'll be there._

She ambled through the tree line with both hands around her revolver, like those cops on TV.

* * *

They had been running for god only knows how long; neither of them wore a watch and neither of them really would've cared how long they were running because of it. They knew it was pure black when everything started, and already the sun was starting to inch across the horizon. Not too conspicuous, but light rays of purple stretching above the island, already casting an eerie glow on the wall of the random shed where the two girls rested.

They had stopped somewhere on the eastern quadrant of the island, though just where they couldn't quite tell. There were dozens of outbuildings, all of them made of the same non-descript concrete and wood materials. Detritus all over the place. The fact that neither girl could read a map or use a compass on even a rudimentary level didn't make it any better (What, they were teenage girls, not boy scouts).

The fact that they were lost in the island like a four-year old in New York City and that they were more than likely surrounded by dozens of people who wanted to kill them wasn't the problem, not that they disregarded that notion entirely, but, no, that still wasn't the issue. No, the dangers outside weren't what scared both girls. The bigger picture is what made them tremble in fear.

Only one person would be making it out alive. And they, like several other pairs of teenagers like them, had a bond that was completely unique to them and was stronger than titanium. Up until this moment in life they had done almost everything together, as inseparable as friends could really get. Having nearly all their classes together for several years now, took a tour across Europe together during spring break and where planning on taking another continental trip through Australia (no way though would they dare visit the Greater Republic of East Asia), and both lost their virginity on the same night (Though to different guys), their bond may as well have been celestial.

Odds were that both would be dead within the next sixty-seven hours, they both knew that. But just on the off chance that they would make it to the end together...

"So, what do we do?" Nicole Gates a.k.a. Girl #23 asked idly, her eyes wide with fear. She thumbed her randomly assigned weapon, an umbrella with a long, sharp metal tip. Rotating it around in her hand, she tried holding it defensively, but her shaking was so great that it fell to the ground.

"Survive," Melissa Kimble a.k.a. Girl#7 said ambiguously, "we have to just do what we can to get out of this thing. Find a way out of these…"

As she fingered her collar, Nicole looked up and shot her eyes open. She spun her umbrella towards her friend's arm and shot it away from the collar.

"Look, we can beat this thing," Melissa said resignedly, "we just have to be fast. I really think we can."

"Beat it?" Nicole piped incredulously, "there is no beating it, it's live or die, no more no less. If we make it to the end, which I don't think we will, but even if we make it to the end we're put in a pretty tough situation. I don't want to kill you, nor will I."

"And I'm not going to kill you either, I won't do it. I don't want to kill anyone."

So the two stood there, in dreary silence and looking down on their feet. Nicole felt edgy at the tension-riddled air; she decided to change the subject.

"Do you think anyone else is in the situation we're in?" The bony, blonde Nicole asked while continuing to nub her fingers against her collars cold metal edge.

"What, aside from being locked in an Orwellian Survivor meets Lord of the Flies with guns type death match, with Forty-eight…well, now Forty-seven - other teenagers?" Melissa snarkily deadpanned.

Nicole stared baffled at her friend for a second before blinking, then continuing.

"Well, yes. But I mean more specifically. Like, not playing…or stuck together with other friends. Other pairs, or with siblings or girl slash boyfriends."

"Well I imagine so, in every game of this there are always hardcore pacifists that simply allow themselves to be murdered rather then kill, or simply commit suicide," She paused briefly at that statement. She contemplated on it for a moment before continuing.

"Umm, from what I've heard of from the likes of Nick and Mallory back home is that there's always some sort of La Resistance group, a band of rebels who try to escape the game. It's almost a sort of paradigm, a niche that they fulfill in this Battle Royale." Melissa explained, followed by a pinch of the bridge of her nose.

"Do you think that there's going to be one of those this time around?" Nicole asked.

"Most likely." The plain looking girl responded curtly. "I mean, take a look of everyone that wound up in here with us. We got Mitsumi and her posse, the class stoner and the pseudo-goth girl. Vikram. The Macintosh triplets…minus Abby, she's playing it I think…. Umm, who else, umm, Violet and her sister. And a boatload of others."

"How could you only remember those people, there were 50 of us in the beginning, right?" Nicole said, shooting her friend an askance glance.

"Well, I was only including the people who I suspect aren't playing… it seems like the number of people I think won't play are far less then those I suspect who will." Melissa confessed ominously.

"Yeah, I can think of quite a lot myself." Nicole admitted as well.

"Oh, most certainly. We got Walter and his cronies, that creepy Russian kid. Weird and ugly as hell, but…goddamn is he smart. Got that narcissistic cosplaying Asian bitch, a bunch of troglodyte hormone-ridden jocks. Nick obviously, Abby obviously… we once had David, but, no more." Melissa listed again, with traces of both morbid cheekiness and dread.

"How about Flora?" Nicole suggested jocosely.

"Hmm, what about her…no way she would play, right?" Melissa said shakily.

"I don't know, you know what they say about the quiet ones. Remember junior prom? And freshman year? So we know that there's a level of crazy underneath that sweetness." Nicole reminded with a chuckle.

"Hmm, I guess you could be right, besides. This game does things to people…it's really intriguing what kind of people we turn into in situations like this," Melissa pondered. "All of the attributes of our personality, the social and moral implications. Fuck, even something as simple as common human decency can easily dissipate from even the most genuine and purest of us. Look at Abby, or maybe it was there all along, who knows. Regardless… If you've ever seen the past programs, you'd know that some of the nicest, most charitable and benevolent characters wind up going crazy and go from sane, to psycho before sunrise."

Nicole raised an eyebrow at her friend, she quizzically asked, "Like whom?"

"Easy, umm. Desmond Dinh was the founder and president of a charity group established at Fairmount High School, Warsaw, Pennsylvania. Would often stand up as a fervent advocate against bullying and homophobia. Even nicknamed "Double D" for his resemblance to the lovable, if socially awkward and timorous super nerd; in addition to the alliterative name mind you. Played the game. Actually won if I recall correctly."

Nicole stood with her mouth agape for a second, near speechless, left in awe of her friend's extensive knowledge of the topic, "H-How-"

"Shannon Jenkins was noted to be one of the nicest girls in Frederick Douglass High School. New Orleans, Louisiana. According to her peers, she was noted as an incredibly shy- if generous- young woman; quote 'would never hurt a fly.' End quote. Also played." Melissa continued, she paused to inhale some rewarding oxygen.

"Umm, our friend Shannon didn't even crack the top twenty, but regardless she still tried to win." She said with a twitch of her lip.

"How do you know about this stuff? I didn't realize you were a fan of the Battle Royale." The blonde Nicole asked.

"I'm not, it's just that my friends do. My other ones anyhow. They would tell me what's what, the proceedings of each annual season so that in a way I was in the loop. I would then go online and start digging. Look up as much information on the people who had died in the game as I could. I would find out who these kids really were. Their yearbook photos. Find out what clubs they took part in. Find their Facebook pages with all the misspelled comments and messages to one another. All that wonderful shit."

Nicole gazed, transfixed in wonder and also confusion. She opened her mouth to something but couldn't quite grasp the words she wanted to use. Which statement to formulate.

"Regardless, with that in mind there is a potential for someone, even as nice and soft-spoken as Flora to start playing out of insanity, or Diane…or even you or me potentially." Melissa deadpanned.

The air after that was very tense. Fear, apprehension, paranoia, just a few feelings that came through the minds of the two girls. They stood around awkwardly as a long silence fell between the two; until Nicole, accompanied by her usual sense of ditz broke out.

"Oh umm, don't forget that scary violinist, umm, what's her name?" Nicole questioned aloud with a finger tapping to her chin. "You know, long black hair, usually no emotion, pretentious with a stick up her ass. Kind of scary actually."

Her friend sighed, half out of frustration with her friend, another out of relief. "Octavia?" Melissa answered with her eyebrow raised, a little embarrassed of her friends airiness.

"Oh yeah! Octavia." Nicole repeated in verbatim with a toothy smile.

"Yeah… though I don't believe that she's a violinist, violin is too small. Maybe a bass or a cello, I'm not that great when it comes instrumental identification." Melissa admitted.

"Oh, it's okay, not really going to matter in here anyhow. But, hey. Before we get too far off topic, you said something about how there's an escape group every year. If there is one this time around, do you think we should go looking for them?" Nicole suggested.

"Yeah I suppose—"

Their strategizing was suddenly cut off by the sound of thunder. Earthbound thunder, in reality it was a quick succession of loud pops from Nick's pistol as the first few shots careened off of the concrete wall of the building, sending Gates and Kimble diving. The girls dodged in different directions, parting from each other as they sought shelter. The next bullet fired hit Melissa in the shoulder, drawing blood in a spray against the wall. She screamed and fell to the ground. Barely a graze, but still hurt like a bitch.

Nick chortled and walked up to the girl, aiming the gun to her face. _Well, so much for escaping…_

He could hear a scream from behind and barely had enough of a chance to turn before unbelievable pain shot through his body. Nicole stood proud, holding her umbrella with great strength as she jammed it into Nick's right kidney. For the moment he was in too much pain to move, giving Melissa enough chance to recover. Jumping up, she ran over with her golf club and slammed it into his shoulder. Nick screamed again.

Swinging her putter up in a long arc once more, Melissa prepared for the kill. Killing wasn't in her daily routine, but when in Rome…

Nick gathered what energy he could muster from pure rage; swinging up the hand he held his gun with and smashing it into the side of Melissa's face. The girl was sent sprawling to the ground once more, this time seemingly for good. In another quick arc, he aimed down the Beretta 92 at Melissa. That act immobilized Nicole out of unadulterated panic.

"No," both girls tacitly murmured as she tried edging her way away from Nicholas.

_Please no!_ Nicole thought to herself as her eyes went wide in panic.

He fired four times in succession. The first shot slammed into Melissa's stomach, spraying blood upon the earth and opening up her belly. The next two went rode up on recoil, both crashing into her torso. The first shot slammed just below the sternum, while the second missed her heart by only several inches, causing fresh blood to erupt out of the holes like twin geysers, pink mist shrouding the air just above the wounds. The fourth and final shot went high due to recoil, gouging a hole through Melissa's neck, severing her artery and tearing open a hole in her throat. The blood bubbled and foamed at her neck as she wildly contorted upon the grassland like a fish out of water.

Nursing his wounds and limping in pain, Nick twisted back around to Nicole._ Fucking bitch, this hurts. I'm bleeding, too much, god damn it!_

Nicole was recovering, looking on in horror as her lifelong best friend laid dying on the ground in a bloody mess. She was backing away, she was useless. Completely unarmed. Nothing could save her, she was done for. She could see as Nick aimed the gun at her face. This was it, this would be the time…

Neither heard the odd whistling sound in time as something zipped just past her face. The boy's stance cut off abruptly as his body jerked backward. As it did, he reflexively fired two shots. Both were hits. She could feel the bullets strike different areas of her midsection, sending her into a fit of unmitigated agony as she splayed down to the ground with a shrill yelp and the widening of her eyes; she reflexively shot to the wounds with her hands. She clutched her red and wet stomach. The fabric of her sweater changed like magic, instantly becoming saggy and purple as the blood from her bullet wounds soaked through it.

What was happening? What was going on? God this hurts!

Nicole raised her head up. Squinting through tear-clouded eyes, she peered through the saline water droplets and saw as the boy wheezed in agony and lumbered around to reveal a slim yet long protrusion jutting from his upper left shoulder. _An arrow? _She could also see the thin line of blood trickling down his bicep.

She glanced with further foresight to see a lean girl facing him with a big, bulky object of curved black metal, pulleys and three wires stretched between the two ends. Beside it was a case with a number of long, skinny rods with feathered ends of similar color sticking up out of it. _Arrows…A Crossbow?_

Nick, in a blind panic, and despite the enormous pain, forced the trigger with extreme speed, but piss poor accuracy, bullets flied wildly and missed their target by a mile until the clip went dry. In sheer terror, Nick desperately fumbled about trying to reload the pistol, the cocky front he upheld earlier had long evaporated. The girl would not let up however. She sprinted with near superhuman speed at the boy, and smashed the crossbow into Nick's person. It collided heavily with his skull as he reeled back in tear-jerking pain. She quickly snatched up one of the crossbow bolts that had fallen out of her case of arrows and loaded her crossbow clumsily. The boy stumbled around as he shielded his face with his hands, and acting quickly she leveled off a shot at him, reloaded, and fired off another in succession.

The first bolt missed by a clear mile, while the second whizzed through his hair. Nick jerked to the side as no more arrows came flying his way, affording him the opportunity to get the hell out of there. The girl with the rainbow-dyed hair was still clumsily reloading her crossbow after her second shot, and with Melissa slumped lifelessly on the ground and Nicole glued to the spot, there was nobody to keep him around. He was in so much agony he wondered if it would kill him. Let alone allow him to stick around to fight, cutting his losses, he ran off with his duffel pack and his pistol tucked in the waistline of his khakis. Opting to run away was the best option out of everything he had, and quite possibly the only one that would allow him to get out of this alive. The bleeding was beginning to make him nervous.

"Fuck. Fuck You!" Nick yelled as he trotted off into the twilight on pure adrenaline.

By the time the heroic girl had gotten the crossbow in working order again, Nick was long gone. It wasn't impossible to catch up to him, but she opted to due the humanitarian thing and check on the two victims.

A moment of silence passed between them as both breathed heavily (more like wheezing in Nicole's case) and looked upon each other. The girl who saved her life extended her hand forward with a confident smirk.

"If I was going to kill you by now," she commented, "I would have done it already."

Nicole tentatively reached forward with her hands, and with the girls' assistance, was hoisted up into a stand. Though in great pain, she could at the very least stand up with some assistance, tough it out. _Hopefully this bullet wound isn't fatal._ She started panting heavily though. Looking down at her abdomen, she could see more or less where she had been shot; a large absorption of blood on her fabric being a dead giveaway. The wounds seemed bad. She was no anatomist, but if she had to guess it probably struck her liver, or spleen, or whatever other organ is supposed to be near her stomach, perhaps they both got the stomach, hurt like a motherfucker. Looking back up to her savior, she could only remember seeing her around school, yet still drawing blanks on to who this girls identity was.

"Who-Wh-Who are you?" Nicole squeaked with some difficulty.

The girl turned her head around to reveal an ovular, pretty, yet also pert face.

"Oh, me? I'm just your normal everyday Rainbow Dash!" Rain Forscythe a.k.a. Girl#15 replied. Of course, then evaluating the mood and how inappropriate that was, she then flushed lightly upon realizing her levity. "Sorry. Just, I've kind of, always wanted to say that." Rain confessed sheepishly.

Looking to change the subject, Rain decided to provide some hopeful knowledge the Nicole's wound. "Look, blondie. Your injury isn't so bad. According to what I learned in Ms. Kaplan's Sports Med class, that bullet seemed to strike your liver; if my placement is correct. And while that is certainly nothing to sneeze at, that's also not an immediately mortal wound. The liver regenerates quickly, if you make it out of this island or find a hospital within the next few days, there's a decent chance you can make it." Rain lectured (a little bit too) optimistically, yet with an underlying sign of wisdom and empathy.

Nicole smiled gratefully back at the girl. Before wincing again in aftershock pain.

They stood by awkwardly for another moment, broken by a strange wheezing sound that had gone nearly forgotten. Looking down, Nicole could see Melissa was still alive, nearly missing an arm with a large hole in her stomach and a large piece of her neck missing. There was blood everywhere, and she was very much alive, the blood from her severed artery sputtering as it passed over her shattered throat. She breathed in frantic gasps, eyes searching around wildly as her throat kept rasping and bubbling even more blood.

Nicole looked down pitifully. She would've cried, but in all honesty she was in too much shock. She lived, Melissa wouldn't live another few minutes. The two comrades looked into each others eyes, Melissa looking up pleadingly, sadly. The pain was gone oddly enough, she was dying and she wanted it to end.

Rain took notice of this and aimed her crossbow at the dying girl's head, a bolt placed anew. What she didn't anticipate was Nicole blocking her sight with her forearm.

"I-I think it'd be best if i did this." Nicole said solemnly. Watching the girl she had known and loved all her life experiencing pain that likely even the absolute sludge of society didn't deserve, she knew she had to ease her pain...

Looking on sympathetically, Rain handed Nicole her crossbow. Nicole couldn't help it, she began to bawl.

Unprofessionally looking down the sight of the clunky thing, Nicole did her best to aim for the head. Nicole was visibly crying at this point, tears streaming down her face, loud sobs emerging from her mouth accompanied by sickly sniffling. Nicole was sweating bullets as her finger incessantly trembled over the trigger. Melissa didn't bother moving, she was now happy to meet her fate, euthanization seemed merciful now...

After a few very tense and emotionally scathing moments however; with an inexperienced pull of the crossbow's trigger, Melissa's suffering was ended, and one more person had left the game.


	12. Hour 6: 46 Contestants Remaining

At precisely six a clock in the morning on the first day of the 9th Annual Battle Royale, the first of the 12 established blares of the centralized loudspeaker systems set up with all 8,000 cameras on the island rang out with an alarm so loud, all of the teenage contestants (With the exception of the unconscious Mitsumi Sato, a.k.a. Girl #5) that were alive enough to hear it where startled out of whatever respective mindsets or modes of concentration they were previously in by it's sheer, piercing volume.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING BATTLE ROYALE! Rise and shine kiddies it's six in the morning, time for killin and blood spillin!" Julia Friedland chirped loudly into the microphone. Her abnormally cheerful voice echoing all throughout the island. "Now, while the quality of your kills are quite commendable, the quantity is rather lacking. Hell in some competitions in Japan and Europe, 10 people would have died by now! But oh well, quality over quantity any day, right guys?" It was possible to hear her chuckle just before she cleared her throat. "Anyways, I'm here with your regular announcement of letting you guys know just which of your classmates are no longer with us and in the order they perished."

She began to read from her papers. "First one to go should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone one of you considering you all most likely saw the corpse after leaving the bunker, in any event it was David Langston a.k.a. Boy # 11. Shot to Swiss cheese, and then had his head turned into a steaming pile of shit by one Miss Abigail Macintosh. Congrats on first blood Abby! Next to go was Mickey Chiang a.k.a. Boy # 4, he literally broke into television! Isn't that wonderful?" She paused for a succinct two seconds before continuing.

"What I mean by that is, he had a TV set dropped on his face Scream style by Joel Hellmuth. Nice job Joel, never woulda thought you'd have it in you to kill! Thirdly we have Violet Belle a.k.a. Girl # 24, Who had her fingers sliced, then her stomach diced by a scythe. Cause of death? Disembowelment via Trixie Song. Excellent job Miss Song, looks like Asians can do more then just be genital-less workaholics? Huh?" She snickered at her own racial invective.

"Just kidding, and finally we have Girl # 7, Melissa Kimble, nearly shot to death by one of today's MVP's, and my personal favorite Nick Delaney, but actually killed by none other than her best friend Nicole Gates a.k.a. Girl # 23! I tell you guys, I love this game more and more with each passing hour. That is all everyone, keep the blood running! We're all rooting for you out here!"

All around the island, the forty-six teenagers hearing the report reacted differently. Some started up new rounds of hysterics, others merely noted down all the information they could garner from Julia Friedland's brief lines. Several relished in the deaths of their classmates, perhaps knowing they had a direct hand in causing their demise. More than a few lamented the deaths of their friends, at the same time wondering how others could be spurred to commit acts of such depravity. Some however, just sat back and wondered what to do next.

Walter Peterson a.k.a. Boy #3 only shook his head in disgust; he had yet to get a kill. And that cantankerous cunt-bucket Beryl was still alive. Though he did admit surprise and a little bit of sadness to hearing that Mickey had died so early (and so easily). But he knew it wouldn't afflict him for too long.

Mitsumi Sato a.k.a. Girl #5 couldn't hear the announcement, in her tranquilized state of dormancy, she could only sense black. She was in a dreamless, senseless, sleep.

Alexander Golden a.k.a. Boy #7 crossed off all of the listed names with little emotion, but plenty of compunction.

Shira Sweet- Belle a.k.a. Girl #8's world was shattered. No way could her sister be dead, simply no fucking way! She would spend the better part of the next hour cycling through thoughts of anger and denial. She couldn't accept that Violet was indeed dead; she began delving down into a fugue of catalepsy, as well as emotional catatonia.

Diane Pye a.k.a. Girl #13 was already losing herself to the deepest and darkest recesses of her psyche (otherwise known as 'Alexis'), and hearing about Violet's death only pushed her closer to the edge.

Vikram Paval a.k.a. Boy #15 couldn't help but whimper as he mentally went over the list. The prospect of four people dying – being killed – in such a short time terrified him, but that was nowhere near the level of fear he felt towards the idea that he could be next.

Octavia Manago a.k.a. Girl #16 crossed off all of the names with complete apathy, all of those people were expendable by nature. The only one she may have been able to convene the slightest amount of sympathy for was Violet.

Hank Macintosh a.k.a. Boy #18 still couldn't believe that his own sister was killing, it nearly made him want to puke. But the announcements wouldn't lie; she was playing without a doubt. He simply didn't know what to feel.

Leonard Tagashi a.k.a. Boy #21 was in the most vehement, and heated bout of sobbing and anger he had ever experienced upon hearing about his true loves death. He would spend the next few hours in the worst misery of his life. The only thing that kept him from committing suicide on the spot was that his best friend Mitsumi was still out there; he needed to stay strong for her, he told himself.

Nick Delaney a.k.a. Boy #23, against his physical pain was in an incredibly jovial mood. HE was JULIA FRIEDLAND's FAVORITE? He threw a squeal that sounded more like it belonged to a rabid fan girl at a Justin Bieber concert. Though quickly calmed down upon realizing he didn't secure two kills. Oh well, at least he got something… Though he'd try his best to get payback against that Rain bitch. _God that smarts._

* * *

Alexander Golden a.k.a. Boy #7 wasn't famous for his brains, but rather for his dialect. Not that it was brilliant or eloquent, or that it caught people's attention due to its intriguing or intelligent subject matter. Rather it was for how vacuous it was, and that it was almost always about sex and drugs all the time, and thinking women were all crazy over him despite his not really handsome appearance. He had huge stuck out ears, pimples, uneven, yellowish teeth with conspicuous corrective orthodontistry, but he didn't seem to notice, even if he did, he thought it was part of his intrinsically pleasing visuals. He was also famous for being stupid enough to try almost anything if he was promised money or drugs in return. _God, Walter almost made me his slave a while back._

Until now, he hid in some bushes at the base of a mountain in the islands Western Front. He had figured constantly remaining outdoors was his best bet. After all, likely everyone else was scrambling around like chickens on acid looking for shelter, while he would play the cold hunter, toughing it out in the wilderness and slaughtering those who made such silly mistakes. But now that the sun had risen, he could finally read the manual to his weapon (for using a flashlight in total darkness in the middle of a game like this wasn't a very clever thing, something that even he could figure out). A combat shotgun, a Semi-Auto Franchi Spas-12 to be more precise, wow, now that was really awesome! He could let out blasts in pump-mode or just literally shred apart the competition with semi-automatic cycled shells of death, hmm…

Alex's eyes remained vacant as he continued to stare at the Spas-12 in the daylight that was gradually emerging to caress this side of the earth. The blood-red hued sunlight draped everything in a sickening shade of dull crimson. The color of the violence he was pretty sure would soon be coming.

Just when he was wondering who would be the honored one on whom the mighty Alex Golden would try out his gun, he thought about something. Could he do it? All he knew about this weapon was almost through pure happenstance.

* * *

What he knew about the weapon he had learned, pretty much by accident, on one of the rare nights he'd been at home. He was trapped; trapped on the couch in his spacious living room flipping through the thousand or so channels on the 59-inch HDTV mounted on the wall. Hard to believe that with all the channels he had at his disposal, there wasn't one thing on that kept him interested enough to keep from surfing. Bored after twenty minutes of going from one station to the next, Alex had finally settled on some show with a former drill sergeant talking about weapons through the ages and how they came to their modern incarnations.

It wasn't like he was into history or anything, but weapons – especially guns – held a special sort of interest for him. Much in the same way that girls did. Both were useful up to a certain extent and then could be abandoned in favor of something better; something sexier. Upgraded, if you will. Both were loud and annoying to listen to after a while. Both were useful in fights for, admittedly, different reasons. And both could handle certain amounts of abuse before they were too worn down to take anymore.

Yes, the two were very much alike (Not like he would know for a fact, just according to his perception).

Alex remembered watching the old drill sergeant rip apart a thick piece of plywood set up as a target for him with the weapon. The way in which the shots coming from the gun tore large, gaping chunks out of the wood with each blast made his eyes widen. That was _definitely_ something he wanted to add to his growing gun collection.

He knew that it wouldn't be too hard to get his hands on one. After all, his father was a military contractor who had plenty of contacts and 'old friends' among the United States Armed Forces. A few words here, few handshakes there and maybe a grand or two deposited into an account would be all it took for him to have it. There were always advantages to having money to burn. _Thanks dad for being such a kickass sergeant, and thank you mom for being such an amazing doctor!_

The only problem for him would have been the waiting. Alex hated waiting. Patience had never been – nor would it ever be – his best quality.

But now, it didn't seem like he'd have to wait anymore.

* * *

Looking back down at the Spas-12, Alex ran his fingers down the smooth, unused barrel of the legendary Italian combat shotgun. True, he wouldn't be able to add _this_ one to his collection but the opportunity that presented itself was one that he'd never have back home. Not without breaking the law. Not without trampling all over the rules that his parents forced him to live his life by. His amber eyes glazed over eerily as he continued to rub his fingers up and down the barrel of the shotgun. The bandoleer of shells across his chest was reassuring, fifty shells, more than enough to take on the rest of the dumb fucks running around like ants. Place the barrel next to a person's head, point, click, and the head becomes a thick paste sprayed across the wall. Not too shabby for a days work.

_Ahh the Spas-12, attributed to more movies and video games then you could count, everything from the hands of Robert Muldoon in Jurassic Park, to The Terminator, to Grand Theft Auto Vice City and San Andreas… That is so sick!  
_

He remembered how his father would watch reruns and current runs of the Battle Royale on ESPN; it was an annual tradition after all. Andrew and Maya Golden (a.k.a. Mom and Dad) would spend top dollar to catch the program on pay-per-view exclusively before everyone else, pay through the nose to procure merchandise, behind the scenes interviews. All the bells and whistles. They would sip their cups of coffee while beckoning for their beloved son Alex to sit on the spacious sofa with them.

Andrew would put his arm around his son and pat him on the back, and Maya would peck him on the cheek while proclaiming how much they loved him. He was raised on American values and came from a truly sheltered family, and despite that, he still became the way he was now. _An outlaw, mad at the world baby. _They both went on tirades about how they were doing a patriotic duty and stimulating the economy, but at the end of the day, they were just obsequious saps who bought into blood and guts with gratuitous fanfare…he was the same way, so he knew he had no right to criticize. God bless their stupid hearts though.

He wondered if his parents where watching him now, if they were cheering for him, or weeping. If they were watching, their hearts likely skipped a beat once they saw him pull out a shotgun from his duffel bag. _Now, all eyes are on Alex Golden a.k.a. Boy number 7. What will he do now? Kill?_

He was in no way a killer, at least not in the sense of taking something else's life. He'd never even gone hunting or anything lame like that, despite his love for guns. He was too good for that; too _awesome_ for that. Spending time out in a cold, wet field waiting for a deer or some other kind of animal to show up so he could shoot it held absolutely no appeal for him. Besides, the only thing he really liked hunting were girls.

He smiled. Though mentally going over the contestant roster again, he remembered Mathias Willard (Boy#20) is his friend. Though that made him a bit depressed, he still knew he was going to have to kill him. There were other people in with him that he liked as well. Rain Forscythe (Girl#15) and Vicky Sanchez (Girl #22) were cool chicks, two of the very few he actually shared some camaraderie with. And he also knew that Toby Vrett (Boy#12) and Brayden Dillinger (Boy#17) were both bosses! But hell, only one person could win! And that was going to be him, Alexander Golden, the next pride of the nation. There were certainly people who had pissed him off, people he'd look forward to executing with glory. Though he wasn't particularly good at anything, if not at graffiti, skateboarding, destruction of public property, and winning drinking contests. Alexander took himself as a particularly gifted and special person, _it must be true if my parents keep telling me that at nausea, right?_ Well, of course he would choose to leave the Battle Royale without killing, if possible. But now he decided he'd play to win. And with such a wonderful weapon…! Yes, it seemed apparent that he was the one destined to make it out alive. He quickly ran through the list of the dead ones… _Sucks that Violet died, she was an incredible piece of ass. Melissa was pretty cute as well._

Mentally moseying away from his female colleagues as he continued to intimately stroke the barrel of the shotgun as if it were his lover, Alex wondered how many of the other students had already come to the same general conclusion that he did. That the laws they were raised to respect and accede to without question no longer applied. How many of them realized that there were absolutely no rules here? No calls for moral upkeep? No laws to keep them from doing anything that they wanted to do? No punishment. No threat of jail time. They could literally do whatever they wanted and get away with it!

It was anarchy in the truest sense of the word! They were all trapped in a game without any sane rules to govern them! So what if only one of them could be alive at the end of it?

Once Alex had realized that, once it had dawned fully in his mind; a strange kind of euphoria had washed over him. Rational thinking was soon replaced with a dull but gnawing desire. Depraved thoughts filling his head made his body shiver with a nervous excitement; the sensation wracking his entire body with a tingling sensation that caused a figurative deluge of libido to flood his psyche.

The skater boy licked his lips. Yeah, upon running into one of the hot chicks, he wouldn't kill them immediately… No, he'd have some fun with them.

_Like, there's Flora Sharpe… aw, doing it the first time with such a beauty! That'd be HEAVEN!__ Then there's Violet…_ _No, not any more. Oh well, there's still that hot violinist Octavia…actually never mind, she scares me. _

He felt a shiver transcend his spine as his thought process backspaced to when he flirted with her in an inebriated state at one of Vicky Sanchez's school-famous parties; He thought he was doing smoothly, tried saying lines that was sure to attract bodacious babes like her… He was forcefully, and agonizingly notified that wasn't the case when his 'private area' was engulfed in white-hot pain seconds later, courtesy of a vicious thrust from Ms. Manago's knee, up to Mr Golden's groin. Ever since that day he either had the common sense, or lack of balls to not continue to pursue her.

_God that hurt, I thought I was going to be sterile from that; maybe this is fates way of conspiring with me to get some revenge! Sure she's a prude, but I'm sure once I show her this bad boy, she'll learn to come around. Hehehe…moving on… Oh! and not to forget Mitsumi! Oh me big American man!_ He mentally snickered at the thought of crude Japanese racial humor.

_Also just throw any of the Pallet Girls in there to, except Violet, I'm no stiff stickler. Oh, and there's Brianna too, just imagine, raping that loser! Gotta look out for Logan though, dispose of that douchebag loudmouth first, then she's yours for the taking my man! _(He obviously didn't take into account the girls' personalities. Like that Octavia would most likely rip his balls off before letting him touch her, Shira and Mitsumi weren't weaklings either, Flora had her patented "stare" and was clandestinely adept at martial arts, so the only easier option would have seemed to be poor Brianna.)

Alex chuckled to himself. _Damn, I'm thinking like a total psycho right now. But then again, I've never seen things any clearer than I do now! I mean, I'm fucking free to do whatever the hell I want! No consequences. No stupid laws to hold me back. No reason to act decent or sane. I can even kill if I want to. I have to admit, I've always wondered what it would be like to shoot someone. All those guns in my collection and all I'd ever been able to shoot at were ballistic gel dummies. Now, I can really see the kind of damage they can do! I'll really be able to see the blood flow!_

A sudden chill cut through Alex. The smile on his face faltered. For the first time in a long while, his hand stopped stroking the barrel of the Spas-12. His amber eyes were still vacant and far-off, but life and fear were beginning to slowly return to them. And so was realization.

_But can I do it,_ he questioned to himself. _Can I really pull this trigger and kill someone? It looks so easy. Point, bang, dead. But just because it looks easy on TV or in the movies doesn't mean it will be. Ballistic gel dummies are one thing. An actual, living person is something else entirely! Then again, that's what I thought about everything _else_ too. Now it's 'old hat' to me and I don't really even give it a second thought._

_Dad's friend once told me that the first kill is the hardest but after that it becomes easier and easier to pull the trigger. _Alex ruminated on this point for a considerate time, however, the oily smile returned to his lips in a slow and creepy sort of way once he reached the conclusion that there were plenty of peachy hot girls to fuck, and more than enough asshole guys that pissed him off in the game he could give the business end of this shotgun to. _Guess I'll get the chance to find out if he's right or not._

Whether or not he wanted to kill was beside the point. If he wanted to live through this craziness, he _had_ to. There was no other way around it. But at least with all the girls that were trapped in it with him, the insanity of this death game wouldn't be without _some_ per-

His thoughts suddenly ended when he heard a noise from the forest. _Finally, I could try this beauty out!_

But what if it was just a bird or a squirrel? Eh, never mind that. He concentrated, and heard a slight crack. Somebody must have stepped on a small branch! He immediately rose up the shotgun and cycled the weapon to semi-auto by pressing the button underneath the weapons slide, and expelled two booms of scattered buckshot aiming downwards, maybe he'd get the leg of a pretty chick, and then it would be very, very easy…

He heard a sharp yelp, it sounded feminine, sounded promising. He smiled a dark grin of devious satisfaction. He then walked to the trees, to see who it was, when he was suddenly blinded by a flash of bright light (the sun reflecting off of something chrome), an encompassing flash of silver that conquered his eyesight, his eyes actually hurt for a second! But then just as quickly as his vision was taken over by white, it all went black.

_Clever girl..._

* * *

"Holy Shit!" Judith Henriksen a.k.a. Girl #12 Shouted out in pure horror at the realization what she had done. She didn't mean to do that…

After Toby Vrett (Boy#12) was released into the playing grounds, she only knew to do what everyone else was doing, she in all truth had only a marginal idea of what was going on. She was sent off to venture the island without rhyme or reason with no real strategy for survival for the past six hours. She had spotted the boy from the bushes. With her assigned chakram disc (or as she liked to call it, "Death Frisbee") drawn out, she remained hidden in the thick shrubbery, thinking it was one of the nice guys like Toby or Hank (her ocular strabismus condition greatly impaired her sense of judgment and depth perception) who didn't pick on her. Unfortunately she stepped idly on some loose foliage, she had hoped that nothing would come out of it, like a successful game of hide-and-go-seek. But instead she was caught off guard by two loud explosions coming from the gun of that yucky looking boy. One of the shots caused a segment of a tree to explode outwards, sending flecks of bark every which way. Some of which dug themselves in her arm, causing her to wince in pain and reflexively yelp. Also one of the buckshot pellets actually managed to embed itself into her side, causing agony to sear all over the left end of her belly. But before she knew it, she tossed her "Death Frisbee" haphazardly in the direction of the thundering booms.

She heard something that sounded like a fusion of a _clang _and a meaty _rip,_ Then the sound of something heavy thudding in the ground_. _Afterthat, the silence seemed almost deafening in the wake of the attack. _What happened? Oh shit, oh shit, OH SHIT! _Her fear almost made the pain go away.

"Hello?" Judith asked cautiously as he forced herself to her feet. There was no response. She looked around, trying desperately to remember what she had done. The girl did not have to look long. A headless body lay face down in the grass, blood slowly flowing out of its stump of a neck in an ever-widening pool.

The boy's disembodied head rolled casually towards a bush, painting the earth red with it's still spurting blood as it tumbled away like a soccer ball.

The morning sun made the seeping liquid show a bright red in stark contrast to the brilliantly green packed graminoids on the topsoil of the Earth (_Almost like Christmas colors_). Judith walked up to the downed figure and placed her foot on their back. Pressing as hard as she could, the girl rocked the person on the ground. They did not move. Although another hearty stream of blood gushed out of his severed, but still leaking carotid artery. She eeped after the boy's foot twitched. Again.

Worry began to inundate over her, out of tension she began to nurse her minor gunshot wound. Any doctor would have called it a flesh wound at worst; she just knew she didn't hurt too bad, so it couldn't have been so bad, right? She pressed her hand against the lesion and slowly massaged it, when she felt good enough, she retracted her hand and saw that it was maroon, like that stuff her family would drink on holidays. Looking away from her hand, she looked back down to the floored boy.

"Oh shit," Judith said with her heart pounding, "are you all right!?" And despite the obvious fact that Alex would never be "All right" ever again, well, due to being dead; Judith was autistic, and a part of her mind sided with the childish responsibility of apologizing, even when it truly didn't matter. Such as now.

_Oh this bad, oh my gosh this is bad! _She had harmed another person! Oh my gosh. Now she'd get in trouble. That's what happened to those who hurt others! _Oh no, oh no! Oh no! Why couldn't someone else have done this?! Who's gonna fix this mess? No parents around to help. Why couldn't Matt be here? He'd fix this… and he'd give me muffins too. No grown ups… Wait a second…no grown ups…no grown ups…NO GROWN UPS!_

She looked around for a long while, waiting for her imminent reprimanding that always bequeathed her every time she did something someone didn't like. She waited around until eventually the decapitated boy's body stopped spurting out blood. _Huh? I did something awful, yet nothing's happening? What's going on. Surely the cameras are there to make sure we don't do anything bad. Right?_

Later on she would wonder why she had behaved the way she did towards the body, but at the time it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. The person had simply surprised her, and she had acted in self-defense. It took a _really_ long time for her to connect the dots and realize what she had really done. Kneeling down beside the person, Judith scanned the body for a while and then breathed a sigh of relief. They were dead, but they weren't one of her friends. That much was good at least. _At least it wasn't Toby or Rain. Wasn't this boy a meanie pants?_ _You just killed someone. You killed a classmate. You just took part in the game... and it felt good, didn't it? That was almost fun, wasn't it? This is what the real American does, this feels right, right? Holy crap it does! This is what adult's want, so I'll do what they say, that's what mama always said, right? It's like on TV! After all, that famous girl from earlier want's this. And adults all over the country love her! So that must mean I need to follow in her footsteps! Gosh Judith, you're so smart! I don't care what Gillian or Logan say!_

Looking at the body in the grass, Judith could feel what he could best associate with a feeling of great strength. Murder wasn't as hard as everyone in the school was making it out to be. On the contrary it had proven to be quite easy. It _was_ easy, but more importantly... it _could_ be easy. _You can do this again, can't you? And you really can pull it off. Yeah, come on Derpy, you can do this. It'll be just like a video game!_

"I can totally do this," Judith said doubtfully to herself. It was mostly a matter of psyching herself up, but it seemed to be doing the job. Right? Some extra bravado. _Yeah, except you don't have a weapon now, do you? Stupid, Stupid! You Just used yours to get this boy, and now it's gone away! But wait, what's this?_

The dead boy in the grass had a gun. A big one by the looks of it. Probably had ammunition too. Kneeling down beside the body, Judith wrestled to flip him onto his back. Gripping it by the shoulders, she tried to flip the facedown body into the position she desired. The dead boy had been large, but a flying guillotine seemed to have done the job. Although turning the body over was difficult, the girl found this last thought to be rather comforting. No matter how bad things would get, they could always be evened out with a gun. She may not have been strong, or particularly athletic. And _especially _not smart (ever since she was diagnosed with ASDs when she was much younger, ever since then, many people told her she wasn't smart. Far from it). But to reiterate, she had found a _gun!_

Finally flipping the bloody body over onto its back, Judith found a shotgun still cradled in its hands. It was brand new, police issue as far as she could tell, like the war men used! And with a little practice it could be incredibly deadly. There was tons of ammo in the bandolier crisscrossing his chest, and with the proper motivation... the sky was the limit really. _I am a patriot. I am one of the good guys. I really can do this. I can play the game, I can win, and I can make everything right again. This was all my fault... but I can make it better. Mama, Papa. I'll make you proud of me! I'll make the adult world respect me! I have a future now!_

With her backpack on her back and newly acquired death-spewer in hand, Judith stepped over the dead body of Alexander Golden, a.k.a. Boy # 7, and into the game with a new outlook on life. She would play, she would kill, and that would make everything better again. The country would see (despite her Swedish heritage) that she truly was a patriot. They would see...

* * *

Many words went through Avery Beaumont, a.k.a. Girl # 17's, mind as she heard every so often the sounds of someone screaming or some scattered gunfire echoing across the island, unnerving sounds; the latest twin shotgun booms being blasted in quick succession especially made her heart stop. Some words were choice, some were fearful, and some were French. Perhaps the most choice of the bunch were the French ones.

"_Putain!" _the girl yelled angrily as she kicked up a foot full of sand. It would do no good, that much she knew, but all the same it made her feel a bit better in the moment. It felt like she could do something about it if she could curse and fight it at the very least. _At least you're angry, that's a lot more constructive than fear. The French only slips out when you're angry, not scared, so that's comforting. Oh if mom could see you now she'd be attacking the TV. She taught you all the best stuff 'cause she couldn't ditch the old life; think you could ditch your old life enough to actually win this thing?_

All things considered, the girl doubted her chances for survival immensely. Though she resolved to get as far away from the action as possible, she was on the furthest northern shore of the island clutching her randomly assigned weapon so tightly, that the she left an imprint on the grip of it with her whitened knuckles.

An IMI Desert Eagle according to the manual that came with it. She knew next to nothing about firearms, but considering how large the gun was and how massive the bullets that came pre-loaded into the multiple clips equipped with the gun, she figured it out to be a very good one. It still felt awkward and clunky in her untrained hands, but held on to it for obvious reasons.

Avery still felt nothing but anger. A pretty, albeit short girl with dirty blond hair that fell about her face in a Nantucket style haircut with a braided ponytail draping down to her upper back. Her normally pouty looking lips were contorted into a grimace of rage after taking a quick swig from one of her pre-packaged water bottles. It was her way of coping, the best she could manage while so many more were on the verge of nervous breakdown and psychotic collapse. All things considered, it did little to make her feel any better about the situation, but it helped keep her more cognizant than most everyone around her. _You're a fucking cheerleader, not some fighter right? At least that's what they think. Cast some little French-Canadian firecracker and they're going to get this all shoved up their ass!_

She chuckled bitterly at the thought that according to that _chatte_ Julia, they were actually five miles off of the coast of her country of origin, even more specifically, British Columbia. Her province of origin! _Did they do this just to spite me? What the fuck? I'm so close to home I can almost taste it! Those cocksuckers! The possibility of escape is so close yet so far!_

Grunting angrily, she kicked up another glob of sand. She was really pissed. She downed the rest of her water bottle before crumpling it up, it making many rewarding scrunches and crunches as she did so. She tossed it aside onto the uncontaminated beach. _What, recycling is the last of your motherfucking problems, huh? _

She had been surrounded by hunters, it seemed like every player of the game was out to get her, earlier she had jogged through the Louis Pasteur Memorial Plaza and heard a bullet whiz by her head like a hornet, followed by a hole the size of a grapefruit being punched into the brick floor. She was spurred to run after that until she was in the forest, shortly afterwards she came across Shira who more or less looked like she was having a mental breakdown. She kept mumbling to herself about her deceased stepsister, her hands were constantly fidgeting and her eyes seemed dilated, she was teary-eyed with a manic grin. Avery also saw a unit of metal hanging on her belt that glinted in the early dawn. A mentally unstable basket case, that's possibly armed with a gun? Hardly a reasonable scenario. So once again, Avery high-tailed it out of there.

She had also come across some of the earliest bodies of the game throughout her expedition around the former seaside resort, obviously David Langston was the first one, no one could've missed that one being that it was almost directly in front of the bunker's exit.

She had seen Violet Belle's horribly mutilated corpse, she looked like a gutted fish, with her innards eviscerated like dead, grotesque snakes on the grassy knoll. Her corpse congealed a pool of blood; there was so much blood, and bile (not to mention _other _bodily substances) on the ground. The sight was so nauseatingly gruesome, it made the Canadian girl upchuck the MRE she had consumed just prior. When she recuperated, Avery could see that she had a slip of paper stuffed in her mouth, and going off of how her teeth where clamped down on the leaflet, Avery assumed it wasn't posthumous, meaning Violet likely put it in her mouth while she was still alive. The film of the paper was glossy, leaving Avery to deduce it was a photograph of some kind. Not wanting to examine further out of respect for the dead, and out of egregious revulsion she fled the scene.

She went to lean on a neighboring palm tree on the beach wiping sweat from her forehead, Avery heard what sounded like a faint mechanical buzz. A weapon? She whirred around on her feet and randomly fired a shot from her magnum out of panic. The massive pistol buckled heavily in her hands with a kickback like a mule and made it feel as if her shoulder was dislocated. The load roar from the gun's muzzle was deafening and felt as though her arms were on fire. The ferocious boom in collusion with the heinous recoil of the gun caused Avery's small body to be knocked backwards as she fell unceremoniously onto her ass. She yelped confusedly as her posterior impacted the sand.

As she got up to her feet, massaging her sore shoulder and rear, she noticed that it was completely silent aside from the subtle mechanical hiss of unknown origin. "Ugh, fichu." Avery groaned bitterly.

She could feel the muscles in her shoulders tightening. Listening to the buzz again, she looked up and grimaced. It was a camera, a video camera to be more precise. It had a mount in the tree, but it moved and focused in on her closely as it rotated in its base.

She had to remind herself, _they actually broadcast this to a paying audience!_ People were probably placing bets on her already, either expecting her to go far based on her skill or expecting her to go rather soon from someone she couldn't see.

She wanted to vomit then and there, but feeling slightly self-righteous and not thinking as straight as she would have liked she spoke to the camera.

"You're enjoying this I'm sure you sick freaks. Is this what you want to see? Huh? Is this what you want to see? A little bit of skin, huh?"

Angrily she took of her shirt then tore her bra from her chest, and standing naked from the waist up she looked angrily at the camera.

"There, you got what you want you exploitive fucks, one set of D cups out and proud on national pay television, bet this'll do wonder's for your ratings, huh? Sex sells, it always works, you like this don't ya?"

Getting even angrier, she held the gun in one hand and pointed it at the camera.

"Do you people ever look yourselves in the mirror after watching this stuff? Do you? What you got is the usual government sponsored massacre, a ratings bonanza? Are we really this close to Rome, are we gladiators fighting to the death in a stadium? No, we're just fucking kids, and Rome fell pretty goddamn fast, is that what's gonna happen to us, huh? Do you people get off watching children murdering each other, do you want to see blood, do you want to see pain? We have enough problems overseas to be doing this to our own, what will this do? How will this accomplish anything? Do we really want to be this Draconian?!"

The camera simply stared at her, remaining silent and dark like it tended to do. It was after all, just a camera. There were other pieces of equipment around it, but it was just a camera, plain and simple. Odds are people weren't even watching her and that the cameras back at home were focusing elsewhere, but once on the soapbox she couldn't step down from it. The bastards put her here; they were most certainly going to hear what she had to say. Speaking to an audience that wasn't listening, reminded her of her cheerleading days. Except of course the atmosphere was much less impelling, and instead much more morbid than the homecoming game.

She had to refrain from using French-Canadian profanities despite how well they rolled off her tongue. No, this audience had to hear in perfect English what she was saying.

"What is this going to accomplish besides a pile of dead bodies; a complete waste of human life an potential? We all have dreams you know. We could've even aspired to be in the ranks of you sick fucks!"

Still, the camera remained silent. No matter what she said, the equipment simply remained indifferent. Avery was disappointed; she expected to keep cooler than this. It seemed her normally aloof mask of apathy was dissipated like butter on a red hot stove. The camera's saw through the mask, they seemed to melt right through it and show her for who she really was. Everyone would know what she was, if they didn't already. Figuring she wasn't getting anywhere arguing with a camera that couldn't say anything back, she mentally kicked herself and pulled her bra back on.

"You're not getting me, and come hell or high water am I going to let you sick fucks get to me!"

Leveling the barrel of her Desert Eagle to the lens of the camera, Avery pulled the trigger (better prepared for the kickback). The bullet smashed the camera with a crash that sounded wonderful. Bits of glass, plastic, and other materials exploded apart helter-skelter, like a shattered pneumatic mosaic. With pieces and sparks erupting like a mechanical volcano, a small speaker soon started blaring nearby.

"DAMAGE OF TECHNICAL EQUIPMENT IS IN STRICT VIOLATION OF SET RULES! THIS IMMEDIATE AREA WILL BECOME A DANGER ZONE! YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO EVACUATE THE PREMISES! HAVE A NICE DAY!"

_Shit._

A small red light below the camera remains began flashing at a regular interval, at which point Avery started sprinting. She left her pack on the ground, carrying only the magnum pistol as she ran. She just flew as fast of she can, out of breath and on pure adrenaline. At the end of her effective range of breath, she did a desperate dolphin dive towards the sand in an effort to elongate her evasive efforts. In five seconds, a floodlight below the camera cast an eerie red light that set the boundaries of the Danger Zone. Looking back, she saw on the ground that her toes were hardly two feet outside the boundary of the set zone. Holy shit, luck, that was it. Luck and that action movie-esque dive, heh, who've thunk that'd work in real life. She got up, dusted herself off and waited. No more, no less catching her breath and getting her heart to beat like normal again. Looking back, she could see the camera, now quite a distance away, the sprint for her life seemingly having taken place eons ago.

With the blaring from the loudspeaker over and done with, all Avery could hear was the droning of the insects, the settling of life as it adjusted to the morning, and the roaring of the tide slapping itself on the beach. Some part in the back of her mind wished that she had at least taken a dip, gotten a feel of the cool water, at least before she transformed a good chunk of the beach into a Danger Zone.

Listening to the surf and the bugs, she thought she could hear something else. Something foreign to the jungle. Something mechanical. An engine of sorts, sounded almost like a boat. Peering around the tree she had leaned against, Avery looked to the source of the sound. It was a boat, and it was headed for the shore.

Only two words could escape her lips as she watched the behemoth approach the coast.

"Well _merde_."

Without thinking she fled the scene, she didn't want to be confronted by whoever was operating the nautical craft (_likely the army_). She had a gun sure, likely she could've taken a few of them out if push turned to shove; but she was no martyr, that was Mitsumi's job. She knew it would certainly result in her death if she confronted them. She ran as fast as her short legs could carry her for the same reason she retreated at the sight of Shira, she was scared for her life. They must've been there to neutralize the dissident who destroyed the camera and made their lives difficult, well no way would she let them get her, come hell or high water she would escape...

With the extra maneuverability granted to her by the lack of her duffel bag, she was off of the Hillsborough beach entirely within a matter of seconds. What she didn't realize was that if she had stayed, she could've had the power to thwart the entire competition…and it wouldn't have been due to her gun… It would have come from perhaps the most unlikely source possible.

As the soldier watched the girl scurry across the miniature sand dunes, he could only sigh dismally. _It's hard to see in this limited daylight._ _Judging on hairstyle, that's either Girl number seventeen, eighteen, or one… considering her tenacity, I'm guessing that's Miss Avery Beaumont._ _That sucks, I wish she could've stuck around. I had something to give her… I hope someone else like her comes around. Especially Ms. Sharpe… I hope she's still out there…_

PFC Horatio Miller thought to himself with mixed feelings.


	13. Hour 6, Part 2: 45 Contestants Remaining

With the sixth hour of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale nearing it's conclusion, the sun was out as it was everyday. Just inching over the horizon; it was bright enough to illuminate the way for all forty-five remaining contestants whose paths needed the light. It would have been beautiful if the person in question was in any mood to admire the everyday wonders of nature, Yet for Diane Pye, a.k.a. Girl #13, the day could not have honestly begun any darker.

Diane was on the verge of vomiting all over herself. Yet she still managed to keep it down, there would've been nothing good that could come out of it anyways.

All it would've done was make her an even bigger wreck then how she had come out into the game anyways. Tearful and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, she staggered out without any regard for the hunters and monsters out there. It was awful, they wanted her to murder all her friends and everybody she knew from high school, but that couldn't be, could it? In any event, she knew she wouldn't be able to do it. Murder, it was something awful, something that she never thought she would be capable of. Murder was awful, murder was something nobody should ever do, how could they expect her to do something so terrible? It was against the law, it was a felony, under most circumstances it was a capital crime that warranted execution or torture, or both. But what about self defense, that was legal, right? That's what they all told her, self-defense was legal, it would be okay to kill in self-defense. She vaguely recalled reading something about how in Texas if you shoot a felon on your property, you get off scot-free. _But could you really do it? It's not just the law, you gotta do it while all those other people are trying to kill you too._

_Well, I know __YOU __couldn't do it… but I can!_

"Shut up!" she said hoarsely to the nagging voice inside her head. It had been talking to her ever since her release. The only other time it had spoken and reared its ugly head was back when she thought all of her friends hated her, but were just planning a surprise party. Or whenever she was depressed, as in suicidal. It seemed the only time the voice decided to show up were in times of great anguish, _how great for me._

_Hey its true you know, I can get us out of this! Just let me take over and I promise I'll get us out of here!_

_No you won't, I'm not letting you in control. I'd rather die!_

Shaking her head hard enough to temporarily dissuade the voice inside her troubled head. She looked beside her where her duffel bag laid zipped wide open.

She had opened up her pack earlier, zipped it up, and then opened it once more once she located the small abode. All of it's contents splayed about the hut floor that she was occupying, food in silver Mylar packs inflated with nitrogen, a leaflet of computer printer paper was strewn aside and regarded as superfluous by the stricken Diane (in reality it was her copy of the contestant roster). Her slim flashlight flashing a rolling cone of light as the torchlight jiggled back and forth on the floor with every passing instant, the artificial bulb dimmed in the presence of the morning sun. The cracked compass was caught in the cone of artificial light, the cracked plastic reflecting some of the light off of it's glimmering transparent surface. But most importantly was her weapon, and well, she was holding it in her hands right now.

A single-shot tranquilizer dart gun. Fuckin' pitiful. What good was a single-shot tranquilizer gun? Shoot it and a person goes drowsy, about as lethal as a Benadryl missile. At first she considered testing it on herself to see if it would be any more potent than a few shots of tequila, but with all things considered that'd be as bad an idea as stealing apples from the Macintosh's farm.

Now the only real purpose it was currently serving was as a good distraction. She was idly toying around with the device, twirling it in her hand like a sheriff, or a gunslinger from the Wild West. It didn't have much bearing on anything substantial; even she knew that, but it was the tiniest bit of comfort she could find from the situation. It kept her from realizing the gravity of what she was in.

She had reflexively fired off a shot earlier in the morning as she was wandering around, she heard the sound of someone running towards her and in a blind panic, pulled the trigger at whoever it was (it was Mitsumi Sato a.k.a. Girl #5 as things would have it. And the dart actually caught her behind the thigh). Thankfully though for Diane, whomever it was didn't seem to notice the stark pinkette in the mantle of darkness shrouded in the advanced darkness, quite the miracle for Diane, but she wouldn't question it, no, only accept.

She really felt like she had to throw up, and more than anything else she wished that somebody was there to hold back her hair. Not just anybody would do, she knew she wanted one of, or all of the Pallet Girls to be there with her. They were best friends through and through, being separated from them in a game of death felt like the hardest thing she ever had to do.

"I can't do this alone," Diane whimpered again as she felt the tears threaten to spill. There was nobody around to see her or judge her, and not wanting to suppress her emotions any more, she let the tears flow. Being sad wouldn't help her right now, but it was all she had to rely on.

Diane felt so anxious, her world seemed to be a singular, malevolent entity. Her heart was racing, eyes were darting around in an openly deranged manner through the tears obscuring her sight. Had anyone caught sight of her in this mentally capricious condition, they would have the questionable privilege to witness her complete descent into madness.

_"Giggle at the ghostly,"_ Diane began to sing to herself, her voice waning in conviction,_ "g__uffaw at the grossly_, c_r-crack up at the creepy" _Diane almost found a modicum of irony in the song, it was a tune she wrote in sixth grade and ever since would emote it to people who were afraid in an attempt to bolster their confidence. Now that she was singing it to herself and herself alone, it frankly had near total opposite effects. "_Wh-whoo-whoop it up with the wee-"_

_Hey, Felix Powell, we're not in the British Navy here, nor World War One, so can you please stop that insipid song now? _

Diane immediately halted her tune, completely petrifying herself. The tears stopped for just a minute to grasp what had just been said to her...by whomever.

_What's wrong? You're not normally this sad,_ the voice said questioningly, _But then again I guess meeting yourself would be a little surprising._

_Shut Up! You're not real!_

_Oh please, you don't really believe that_, the voice questioned, "_I should know. I am you after all."_

Diane opened her mouth, but was too confused to be able to make any sort of noise that could be considered words in any language.

_Every single dark thought and feeling you've ever had. That's me. I know everything about you, every single one of thoughts, good and bad, all your fears, your hopes and dreams, all of it. Because I live inside you; trying everyday to get control, to turn you back into what you were before, what you were meant to be._

"What are you talking about?" Diane asked, finally able to form words again.

_Remember when you were little, growing up on the farm with mom and dad? Before the Pye's. Remember Irene and Beatrice? And how different things were back then? How you never partied, or made up ridiculous songs, or even had friends? How you were, well, me?_

"I remember. Every single day I remember and every day I try to forget. I laugh and play games and sing songs to try and forget, but everyday I remember." She solemnly confessed.

_That's the you you're supposed to be. Not this clown you pretend to be. It was really nice of you to let me out on our birthday last year. Best birthday present ever. Why not let me take over again? I'll make sure we survive this game._

"No!" Diane covered her ears and pressed herself flat against the ground, "No! I'll never let you out! Not ever again! You can't have control, not again. Not here."

_"That wasn't a request. I AM taking control, whether you like it or not!" _The voice demanded.

"No! I won't let you, you, you…me, whatever you are" Diane shouted to herself in a perplexed, yet fervent shriek.

_Oh please, for the sake of keeping your stupid brain from getting hurt, call me…Alexis._

Diane remembered that Alexis was her middle name, is that the reason why this _demon _in her head adopted that identity?

Next thing Diane knew, she could actually feel herself slipping away, probably being replaced, but her collective thinking, cognizance, and overall persona was fleeing her…she was vanishing within herself!

"No! Please no! Oh god someone help me!" Then, for the briefest of moments, Diane had enough clarity and sound of mind, just enough of a break from the insanity that was consuming her to notice something about her immediate environment, a noise that was causing her torch to rock about the floor even more. It was thumping along the ground and gradually increasing in volume… they were footsteps!

They had frozen in place however. Whoever was out there must have luckily heard her pleas for help. Of course now in retrospect, it probably wasn't so lucky after all. Thankfully, at least for now, the voice was silent.

Diane cautiously tensed up and aimed her dart gun at the entrance to her sanctuary. Then whoever was outside asked, "Is somebody in there? Are you okay?"

It was a boy's voice, throaty and gruff. And that somehow was even worse than if it was a girl. At least if it was a girl, she could've reserved a dim hope that it was one of her fellow Pallet Girls. But no, it was a guy, and by his voice alone. She surmised that he was a big and gargantuan monster out to hurt her. Though in spite of that assumption, he did sound genuinely concerned. _No, it's all a guise, he wants to kill you. Don't let him have it!_

"Don't come in here, I have a gun!" she cried. Technically that was partially true (she reminded herself that by looking at the dart launcher once more in her grip). She still believed it was an outright lie all the same, even she could hear that from her voice, but there was still the impossible thought that the boy outside would accept it and go away. _Please go away, don't come in here, don't call my bluff and don't come in here._

"Look, don't shoot me, I don't mean any harm," the boy outside said calmly.

"Just go away!" Diane practically screamed as her finger tightened even further around the trigger.

"Please, I won't hurt you," the boy said as he stepped slowly into the hut with his hands raised. Rodney Woodrow, a.k.a. Boy #22, would have been an intimidating figure to see in the context of the Battle Royale, but the uncharacteristically calm look on his face underneath the bill of his midnight blue Yankee's cap. Simply put, Diane had always known him to be Walter's second in command and nothing more. A tried and true delinquent as well as a teenage criminal on multiple occasions, Rodney was not somebody she'd expect to keep from killing her on a second glance. Still, it was odd to see him look so composed in this game of death, like he knew of some abstract greater picture far beyond him, and was resigned to it's assimilation. Almost like he wasn't affected at all. No, that's not it. It was like this game... changed him.

"What do you want?" The girl asked defensively as she gleamed the flashlight on his face, getting him to recoil back slightly.

"I just heard you screaming, thought I'd come over and see if you were in trouble," Rodney insisted as he reached into his pocket. For a petrifying moment she thought he was going to pull out a gun, but he merely found his flashlight and clicked it on. More light illuminated the inside of the toadstool hut, getting Diane to flinch and lower her own torchlight.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," Rodney said as he clicked off the light again, " Just figured it could use a little bit more light in here. I just wanted to make sure you're not hurt or anything."

"I'm fine," Diane assured as she wiped the tears from her face. "I'm not hurt, I'm just really scared, but thank you for stopping by and making sure all the same."

"I kind of had to," Rodney said with a smile. It fitted awkwardly on his lips, but it gave her an unfamiliar sense of reassurance.

Diane smiled in kind at the boy, _looks like not every boy in this game is a monster…maybe even some of the bigger ones are nice. _Diane thought to herself.

Rodney suddenly raised a finger and pointed at the pinkette and spoke, "Hey, that thing in your hands, is that your weapon?" He asked.

"Yeah, I lied about having a real gun," she said with a grim smile, then added, "I guess I'm pretty much fucked, huh?"

"Not really, there's definitely far worse things that have been in kids packs, but yeah, I guess in the grand scheme of things I think you're on the losing end of the Wheel of Fortune," Rodney mused as he seemed to be thinking. Evidently coming to a decision, he swung his pack around and unzipped it in a smooth motion. She watched nervously as he pulled out something long and dark as night.

"What's that?" she asked as she forced herself to remain calm.

"Here, I might be screwing the pooch by doing this, and it's not a lot, but it's definitely the right thing," Rodney said as he yanked the black cover off of the thing, revealing a shiny metal surface that glimmered as light reflected off of it. He turned it around, wielding the shiny part cautiously, and offered her the handle.

She stared at it, unsure of what to make of the boy's intention. It seemed to her like he was going to offer her the weapon, but that couldn't be. To willingly give up a weapon was akin to forfeiting any chances they had in this game, to actually do so would be completely unthinkable. He couldn't possibly be doing this, this couldn't be for real, there had to be a catch somewhere in there. What would he be getting out of this? Nothing, that was what, and in a Battle Royale she didn't think anybody could afford to be charitable. It was life or death, damn it, people don't do that, do they?

"Ar-are you sure?" Diane tentatively asked, making sure this was a binding transaction.

"If I wasn't I wouldn't be doing it." Rodney said.

"Thank you, thank you so much for this," she gushed as she accepted the weapon. Apparently people do do that. As she held it by the handle, she recognized what it was. It was too glorious to believe, no, no, glorious wasn't the right word. Beautiful might work, but it didn't seem fitting for such a work of art. This was perfect, hand crafted, shaped and styled by thousands of years of practice and experience to become one of the most effective melee weapons in the world. It was a sword. Not just any sword though, but a Japanese Katana. It could slice through flesh, bone, pretty much anything with the proper amount of force. Flick of the wrist and you could lop off someone's head, lickity split. _Stop with the violent thoughts!_

Rodney noted the jubilation, the glimmering in her eyes and how thankful she seemed to be. He chuckled wryly. "Heh, Merry Christmas!"

The girl looked up at the boy, she couldn't believe a criminal like Rodney was capable of such generosity, of being so magnanimous, of being so… stupid.

_Wow, this boy voluntarily gave you his weapon, and a damn good one at that, make him pay for his stupidity with his life! Kill him._ Alexis said mentally as she reared her ugly head once more.

_Shut the fuck up! I'm not killing him, nor anyone else for that matter! I won't do it._ She refuted mentally.

_I wasn't asking for your permission…_

And with that statement from "Alexis", Diane could feel her blood pressure rise rapidly, a thumping pulsation inside her brain was growing to the point where she felt like she was going to bust a gasket. The feeling of her conscious slipping away was coming on again. She let out a cry of pain. Rodney immediately came to her aid. In potential risk to his safety he rushed right up to her and knelt down to her level.

"You seem to be in pain, are you okay?" he asked sincerely with eyes that revealed nothing but paramount concern.

Diane wanted to tell him that a split personality of her own is manifesting itself within her and is threatening her own conscious, and that if she is unleashed everyone is going to die… but her mind told her it wasn't such a good idea, he wouldn't understand, and even if he did. There was nothing he could do about it.

"It's nothing, just a little headache." She lied.

_Heh, I'm just a 'little headache' to you huh, well how about __**this**__?!_

Diane suddenly winced at an even more intense throbbing within her skull. It felt as if her brain was about to explode! She let out a shrill gasp and vigorously rubbed her hands around her temples to try to assuage the pain. It still felt like a jackhammer was burrowing into her cranium.

Rodney gently put his hands around her. "Are you sure, that's just a 'little headache'? It seems more like a horrendous migraine to me." Rodney said with questioning concern.

"Yes, it's just a headache, I assure you." Diane lied, this time with faltering assertion. She was quite sure he was unconvinced and wouldn't buy it. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it, he reluctantly believed her claim after a few moments of hesitant thought.

"Well, I'm not sure if any of this will help, but when dealing with headaches I know several things you could do other than take Tylenol. Try laughing, or sleeping, drink plenty of fluids, especially water and tea. And if you can, try finding some peppermint oil. Ok." He suggested. He then added, "Oh, and sorry I can't help you any further than those bits of advice. But I'm no acupuncturist or anything like that." He tried giving an awkward smile once more.

It didn't have the same effect as earlier, but feeling compassion for the boy for at least trying to help, and still feeling very grateful for her newly acquired defense, she felt obligated to respond in kind.

"Oh it's ok, you've already done much more than you had to…thank you very much, Rodney." She said with a smile that summoned about as much happiness and gratitude as she could at the moment.

Diane raised her head and asked, "I know this is a lot to ask of you, but can you stick around for a bit? I'm really scared, it would feel nice to... have somebody around here."

For once, Rodney actually looked disorientated, looking like he had some sort of unspoken difficulty. Looking her hard in the eye, he said finally, "Look, it's not that I don't want to. I'm beyond flattered that you want to spend your last hours with me, but it's just that... there's something else that I have to do. I know this sounds really bad, but I can't waste my time here."

Diane had to admit she was a little bit hurt, but at the same time she knew it was out of her hands. She had no business asking other people to let her depend on them, it was simply unreasonable however she put it. Still, it would have been nice to have somebody tolerate her lack of reason in a situation so insane it seemed nearly impossible. Rodney was no familiar face in high school, but out here he would have made a decent friend at least.

Rodney's stern look became an awkward grin, which then transformed into a warm and empathetic smile; however as soon as the kindness in his face came, he put back on a pensive expression. "All right, it's been nice talking to you but I have to go, you stay safe and take care, all right?" Rodney said as he quickly zipped up his pack. "Let me give you one last piece of advice, get the hell out of here. Find a proper place to hide, see if you can find a few friends you trust absolutely, then hide out and stay alive for as long as you can. Unless you're up to killing your friends, that's the best you can do in the situation."

"Thank you so much for this, really," Diane said sincerely as she could feel the tears come again. Gathering up her pack and the rest of her possessions, she stood up and made for the exit of the toadstool hut, intent on taking Rodney's advice and getting out of the hellhole. Once she was safe, she could contact her friends and see if they could get back together. _And then everything will be all right again? Doubt it, but it's all you have now._

Her head throbbed once more with renewed vigor, and Alexis added some more positive commentary.

_No you won't, they've gone away because they don't like you. They never have, and that's great for you, it'll make it all the more easier to slaughter them like the vermin they are._

"QUIET!" she screamed to herself. Perhaps a bit louder than she intended.

Upon realizing the volume at which her outburst generated, she sheepishly looked around and took off into a full sprint. With her newly acquired katana held tentatively in both hands and her duffel bag strapped to her back, Diane Pye set off to find herself some safety and hopefully relieve these goddamn migraines.

As he watched her run away, Rodney prepared to do the opposite._ Man, that girl has issues. _He said to himself with a wry chuckle.

* * *

"God Damnit!" Pamela Ridley a.k.a. Girl #18 remarked bitterly. "Just god damn it!" she repeated. She had checked another neighborhood of houses in the past hour and she was seriously getting pissed. No sign of Lily Marsh (Girl#4) anywhere. Though to be fair it's not like Pamela could've just expected Lily to be in one hotel room, one tenant on an island filled with thousands of potential spaces. So one house out of the hundreds of buildings that dotted the map was very naïve to think that Lily would be in. But still, it would've been a lot easier if that weren't the case. Nevertheless she at least didn't have any complication searching any of the domiciles.

Since she searched from room to room, she eventually developed certain propensities such as foraging for valuables. On her operation she found multiple bottles of varying alcohol beverages in nearly every room: Brandy, Vodka, Scotch, Champagne, Wine. You name it in every room. That was around two hours ago and now she had been shortly afterwards meandering through the residential town areas looking for more buildings to search.

It was there she ran afoul of Spencer Ryan, a.k.a. Boy #10. The pompous self-proclaimed ladies man had come at her with a hunting knife out on the streets. He came fast, screaming like a banshee and managed to slash the shoulder of her blouse. Reacting on instinct, she swung around and used her police baton to smash him in the face. With an audible crack, the impact brought him to his knees, but Pamela was relentless. Again, and again, and again she hit him square in the face with the nightstick like SPD's finest, spraying blood all over the place. She'd broken his nose, one of his cheeks, taken out several teeth and caused enough shock for him to bite off and swallow much of his tongue. He lay unconscious, writhing robotically on the ground as the pain still coursed through his body. Pamela was so shell-shocked by the event, she just grabbed his knife on the ground and ran away with tears streaming down her face.

She had stopped screaming and crying since then, but she still felt the unease of the ordeal to be quite alarming. It was thankfully daytime finally, she couldn't believe how terrifying the night was. It made the already nightmarish prospect of the Battle Royale somehow even worse, at least now that the sun was out she could see her map better and gave her an extra degree of clarity. But still, she still mostly had to depend on herself for her own survival until she found Lily.

"Gotta be around here," she muttered to herself as she looked around once more with her nightstick tucked into her Vince Camuto snake-embossed belt and her ungainly Bowie knife out and gripped tightly in strong fingers.

With a grim smile, she nearly ran head on into Leonard Tagashi, a.k.a. Boy #21, as he gripped her forearm tightly. She recoiled immediately with a shrill scream, slapping the boy away with all the strength she could muster. Her other hand lashed out immediately with her knife in an act of defense. Fortunately for Leonard, he had jumped back far enough that the attack could only threaten rather than maim. He still raised his weapon, a sickle, to an active defense.

"Watch it," he hissed, then immediately added, "Have you seen Mitsumi around, or anybody you think might be her?"

Given Pamela had already had an awry encounter with a boy earlier, she didn't want any other altercations with a male stranger. But looking upon his face, she realized he wasn't a stranger, in fact; Leonard was one of the people she knew and might even refer to as a friend on an exceedingly generous day, and he looked like shit with the immensely dark rings around his reddened eyes and dried tear residue all over his cheeks (_from crying obviously_). However like most girls at Cold Rivers High School, Pamela knew him only as Mitsumi's best friend and ever present helper, and as the boy who fawned over Violet and was deeply infatuated with her (_Sadly friend-zoned, and deceased_). But hearing him ask about her, that had to be genuine, right? She didn't think he was going to attack her or anything, most likely he was just trying to find the girl he loved (not in that way of course) and protect her until the end of the game, but all the same she wouldn't let her guard down.

_Funny, in a way he's sort of like me. We're both searching for someone, trying to be heroes, he's driven by love, I'm driven by friendship… wait what? So is he. He's going by both in this game I guess._

"Nope, haven't seen 'em," she said, a bit too quickly. "Say do you mind putting down that Soviet symbol, I want to keep my head thanks." She pointed out.

"Oh sorry," Leonard said apologetically as he lowered the hand scythe. He seemed even more dejected than the leftovers of his previous depressive episode would indicate. "Well, in that case you do, will you let me know if you come across them? Just please use your phone if it's working, send me a text and let me know when and where you saw her, please? Whether she's still... you know, alive?"

It might have come across as unsettling in a way to anybody else, that he wanted to see the girl he cared for the most even if they had passed on, but Pamela could somewhat comprehend. She was a hopeless romantic herself, one of the worst kind who believed in Romeo and Juliet and would sooner kill herself than be with somebody she didn't want to. The very worst kind, really. It was like her mama had always said as she had brushed her hair, _everybody should die happy, or at least with somebody they love.  
_

_And mama's right y'know. Everybody should die with their loved ones, not stuck out here on some godforsaken island where they're made to kill each other. That just ain't right._

"I don't know where either is, but I'll keep an eye out and let you know if I see them," Pamela replied with a slight nervous smile, "I honestly don't think I'll happen to bump into her, seeing how I won't be running around for long if I can help it, but if that does happen I'll let you know, and I'll tell everybody I see to keep an eye out for her, sounds good?"

"That sounds... great, actually," Leonard said gratefully, "thanks for doing that, really, I'm so grateful you have no idea. Thanks so much for that, thank you, really, thank you!"

Pamela was fairly certain she would have been as thankful as Leonard was had he made the same promise to her (if she had a boyfriend, that was; Pamela had a few fun things going on, but not really a long-term boyfriend she had any level of commitment to). It was just so... romantic. If the entire game was merely a setting of a bad romance novel, she probably would have enjoyed it greatly. It wasn't though, and as much as Pamela wanted to see it in a romantic light, she couldn't pretend it was anything but horrifying. No, not at all, Battle Royale was evil, Battle Royale was terror, as much humanity might come out of it, there was no denying it was beyond fathom in its propensity for horror. If only they were back home and everyone was this genuine.

"You're welcome," she responded in kind with a half-hearted smile. "I'll just be on my way then," Pamela added.

"I'll do the same," Leonard said as he turned and ran off for a couple of steps, turned around again and shouted once more, "THANK YOU SO MUCH!"

"Keep it down, you'll get us killed!" Pamela warned back, but even still she couldn't help but yell a bit. Her brief encounter with Leonard had heightened her spirits surprisingly. It was simply... invigorating, she felt as though a new energy had been injected in her. She felt almost equipped to take on anything now.

After watching Leonard jog off into the nebulous distance until he eventually faded into oblivion, Pamela couldn't help but ponder how she thought of him.

_Well, aside from being Mitsumi's personal worker, and Violet's admirer, he is quite hot even with that gnarly spiked up hair that I don't like. And according to rumors Abby, Shira and Scotti all like him. If that's true, I can kind of see why. He's handsome, loyal, and extremely kind. Why, I think I'd ask him out if we weren't in a death tournament. Can't believe he is surrounded by girls on a daily basis and has multiple girls having the hots for him and yet he is so devoted to only one girl that I could probably walk up to him naked and he probably wouldn't bat an eye…just wow…I both respect and pity him. Is he a virgin? I wonder…_

"But yeah, Violet is...was a lucky bitch." Pamela said aloud as she pushed upon the door to a nearby general store.

_She'd be so lucky to have him… He deserves her… _She thought as she gently closed the door behind her.

* * *

"Phoebe Cates was in Fast Times at Ridgemont High with Judge Reinhold, who was in Beverly Hills Cop with Paul Reiser, who was in Aliens with Bill Paxton, who was in Apollo 13 with none other than Kevin Bacon. Booyah!" Vikram Paval, a.k.a. Boy#15 exposited. Tugging his fist inwards as a salute of personal victory.

He had never known why that game always had to end with Kevin Bacon, but hey. It has become an ubiquitous acknowledgement of the string of movie references had concluded. To find some arbitrary actor and then find said actor to somehow be intertwined in a trivial way to a Hollywood legend, why it was Kevin Bacon, Vikram may never know. Should've been someone better like Clint Eastwood, or perhaps Jack Nicholson. Maybe the argument was that it would be too easy if it were those guys, monolithic Hollywood names. So, someone who's famous, but not overly so. _Eh, we can't all choose what we want, like how I had to be picked for this effing game, huh?_

He knew that in this game he couldn't stand a chance against the real tough guys in terms of surviving. Truth be told, he was still quite out of it, everything was a blur, he only remembered waking up in that wretched classroom and then following the lead of what everyone else that was released before him did. He physically was nowhere near tough, he was perhaps one of the least physical threats in the game. No, where his true forte lied was in his intellect, the thing that made his very existence worth living, what allowed him to have impeccable grades and saw him through the state geography bee's and gave him a 2350 score on the SAT's, all of that gone to waste. It seems no matter how much he tried thinking of any transitory solution to this problem, it seemed like there was no escape. Looks like that scholarship into Harvard, the college grants and scholarships, gone to waste; a mind as great as his would burn out long before his true time were to come. But hey, that's life, it's a bitch, and then you die. Any Questions?

_Heh, I thought not._

Either way, most of his time rambling about the island was done in a daze. He was lucky enough to locate a barn on the outmost rim, away from most of civilization, and thus away from all of the hunters and killers this game was sure to produce. And it sure felt that way, as in it truly seemed isolated from civilization. The place was a gambrel-roofed barn house. It was an aged edifice that reeked of moist and semi-rotten wood, with cracks and holes corroded at places in the walls. The barns front doors hung heavily from its twisted hinges, looking like they would fall completely apart in another week or two. One of the doors had already been tugged open and was held in place by a crumbling pile of bricks. Darkness reigned inside the barn and rusted tools were scattered all over the place, just enough to contribute to a vastly unsettling atmosphere. So if that was the case, why on earth would he choose this derelict structure as his hideaway? Simple. No one else would have the testicular fortitude to reside here, and that was all the resolution he needed; Vikram thought as he was lying against a hay bail, trying his best to adjust into a comfortable position while keeping the loose bits of hay from being entangled in his hair.

He stroked through it with his free hand in order to filter out some of the bits from his scalp. His other hand loosely cradling his assigned weapon. A screwdriver. Around the size of a small dagger, a decent weapon, not necessarily a powerful or even formidable one. But something he could pull out if circumstance dictates and hopefully protect himself with. Common sense would say that a gun was far superior, or even an actual blade such as a knife or a sword. But hey, there were others who were sure to be much more inauspicious than himself, right?

Of course how indigent could you be if you were one of the fifty selected teenagers annually that was chosen to be in a game of death similar to gladiators during the fucking Roman Empire out of millions of other hormonally charged adolescents? Not lucky at all. Even if you were to rhetorically survive the whole thing and win the cash prize that is surmised to exceed the seven-digit mark. Vikram would've liked to think that no amount of money could cure the horrific trauma and very most wretched aspects of humanity and depravity witnessed in the lowliest catacombs of bloodthirsty, mindless entertainment. But hey, look at Julia Friedland, she seems happy. Clinically insane and a raving maniac; but happy.

Fishing his cell phone out of his newly soiled khaki's, he checked the LED screen for any new calls or notifications that someone still cares for his existence. To his chagrin (and even his expectation) the screen remained the same as it always had. _No new message. Great._

It was true that there was close to no one in the game with him he knew or liked all that much, being the asocial introvert he was. Skinny as a twig with incongruent crooked teeth and a small stature, he was unpopular with women, and unpopular with men due to no extra-curricular outside of academia. So he was merely cruising by high school like a ghost only caring for grades and test scores. And despite that, he was still chosen on merit to be one of the "chosen class". Had to be for his grades, what else could it have possibly been.

In spite of being so ambivalent about blending in, he was kind of hoping idly that at least one person in the Battle Royale with him would care enough for him to try and communicate with him. But that must've been just asking for too much.

He left his phone lying on the littered ground beside him in the miraculous improbability that he actually was called as he tightened his grip around the screwdrivers handle.

His mind began drifting elsewhere, to the topic of his fellow colleagues in the game with him.

_Well there's Joel. Pretty much everyone I interact with is merely due to him. He's an introvert to, but apparently one that could still garner friends on his own accord. I guess a byproduct of his companionship is Brianna and Logan, 'course Joel despises Logan, so hey. Then of course there's the Pallet Girls. Mitsumi, Flora, Rain, the whole lot. Walter and his posse of thugs. Vicky and Octavia. And a cornucopia of others. Hmm._

It sort of surprised him that he didn't particularly miss or long for anyone. Not even his parents, sure he loved them like any normal person raised in a stable household would. But still, a squadron of soldiers could've executed them all by now. Besides, they were about as austere and academically oriented as they came. Constantly applying skull-crushing pressure on the young Indian to excel scholastically with flying colors. He knew it was in his best interest, but sometimes it was just too much.

He wondered, would his mother and father only love him if he got the best grades feasible? Was he just a conduit to live through his parents, rise to their expectations so they could live through him? Well there's no way he'll know now. But at least in a way he was free, free to die that was.

Though he held no illusions that his death would be pleasant, he was sort of reserving an iota of hope that it would be quick and painless, or he would survive near the end, or both. I mean he obviously would've preferred to survive entirely. But if not, then he wished for those two stipulations at the very least.

But hey, he knew he likely wouldn't get his wish, to this he just sighed sullenly, knowing he was resigned to a fate that was far beyond his power. Feeling forlorn he knew one thing that could distract him at this point. It wasn't much, but it always made light of grave situations and countless instances of ennui back in his home state of Washington.

"Michael Swaim was in Kill Me Now with Katy Stoll, who was in Two Million Stupid Women with Sarah Hall, who was in The Scenesters with John Landis, who was in Animal House with the one, and only Kevin Bacon. Hehe! Yeah." He said in a decidedly grimmer sense of false air.

_Hmm, not as cool the second time around._


	14. Hour 7: 45 Contestants Remaining

The Hillsborough Community Church was a fairly ornate looking place. With the mosaic glass windows serving as distorted portrayals of all of the most famous biblical saints being depicted through the prismatic visages. As the morning sun glowed high in the blue sky, whitening the clouds above and kissing the island in it's entirety, it as well allowed colorful beams of light to seep through the church, given certain areas of the interior the sensation of being within a kaleidoscope. Motley light danced and flew over the vanilla colored walls like a bird, causing a couple of the occupants to shield their eyes from the blinding rays as they shifted in their wooden seats. The exterior had mostly facsimile chocolate colored wooden pews all facing together in rows divided into two columns (only being divided by a long red carpet that made up the aisle). All facing the lectern where demagogues and preachers would eternally praise the Christian lord during countless Sunday services and memorials.

On this day though, there were no preachers or churchgoers occupying this cathedral; rather perhaps one of the most unexpected cast of high school students to have been assembled since the games beginning. They all had different agendas, but for one reason or another, each of them had decided to stick around. Some stayed because they genuinely believed in what the timorous girl at the pulpit had to say, others decided to do so because they were lost and knew no better option. What they all shared in common however, was that they were all silent as the doting girl began to speak.

"I...I would like to say something," the girl said in front of her audience.

Clearing her throat, Flora Sharpe, a.k.a. Girl #11, said hesitantly at first, "First of all, thank you. I'd like to thank all of you again for coming here. I don't know if it means anything saying that, but I would feel bad omitting that. As you may know, I'm not too good at speeches, especially, you know, in front of people. So, I guess I should start by saying I hope this all goes well. Some of you probably know I'm not a good speaker, but I guess that's, umm, arbitrary in here, if that's the right word to describe it. That doesn't matter though, because today, right here, right now, my desire is just to give a eulogy of sorts, just, something to be said so that the dead amongst us aren't forgotten. Today, this hour, every one of us here, we mourn the passing of four individuals from Cold Rivers High School."

Flora was holding a lit candle, as were all those in attendance at the cathedral (though each with a varying degree of care); some were sitting down while others stood up solemnly. The candle's flickering flame highlighted the dark semi-circles that dawned underneath her eyes like she hadn't slept in days; light purple rings that made it look like she had a shiner that was going through convalescence. Either thing may as well be. She felt just as abhorrent, the ambush by Abigail and the hearing of Violet's death being the two heaviest contributors. Nevertheless, she knew she had a duty to keep talking as a praising for the deceased.

"I don't think what the... morning announcement, what it said, was anywhere near enough to... I don't know, give solace to the dearly departed and let them have closure. God knows, and I apologize for using his name if any of you are sensitive to theistic things and such, I'm sorry... God knows how much defacing and desecration will be given to us posthumously, how are remains will be ransacked and possibly not even given proper burials. And that's a _damn _shame in my opinion..."

Flora paused, allowing her thoughts to shuffle like a cognitive organization of papers before continuing her speech.

"You know...Well, first of all, I apologize in advance for making this next bit about me, but...I love animals and nature, I always will, and always have. I'd like to think, that, well, at least in nature that God and the universal order gives earths creatures somewhat dignified deaths if man isn't playing a hand in it through artificial means. Sadly, while we're natural creatures...we won't be given natural deaths or any of the intrinsic luxuries given to woodland creatures. And that, saddens me more than anything else. Which I guess compels me even more to provide some comforting words to hopefully give the dead some rest..."

Flora once again took a moment to collect herself, wiping some tear droplets around her eyes with her cashmere sweater sleeve and punctuating the action with a sniffle.

"All I really wanted to do, was to say something, maybe conduct a short ceremony to properly honor their passing. If any of you are friends with these people, you could say a few words. It's just, these are people we've known for years. I, umm, just thought they deserved better."

Flora paused, and as nobody spoke, allowed her head to tilt forward. Her chin sagged to the front of her chest, where a silver pendant lay on her enormous breasts. She rubbed her balled up hand into her eyes to help keep them clear. Now her eyes were open, and she could see those few people in the pews before her.

Roger Lombardi, a.k.a. Boy #2, some found him to be a jerk while Flora knew he had the capability of being a really nice guy; he had proven to have a heart of gold and the loyalty of a watchdog in several instances in the past. Shira Sweet- Belle, a.k.a. Girl #8, a choir girl who shambled in here an utter wreck, and mindlessly babbling about her now deceased sister (as well as one of Flora's best friends), but since then has appeared to calm down. Octavia Manago, a.k.a. Girl#16, sitting next to her best (and seemingly only) friend Victoria Sanchez, a.k.a. Girl #22, their hands clasped together in some union, almost like a platonic matrimony that generated comfort for the two girls in these harrowing times. Rodney Woodrow, a.k.a. Boy #22, somebody who's presence actually astonished her, before now he seemed to be little more then a taciturn guard-dog for Walter, but still. Him being here was hardly bad news. Right? And last but certainly not least was Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5, Flora knew him as Spike's friend (and also as the boy who would ogle her and her friends, almost every time they were in sight). Always quick with a joke, and even quicker with a comeback.

Flora held absolutely no illusion that these people would be dead before the game was up. As much as this sorrowed her, she knew it was a nightmarish contingency to dwell on, but she knew it was a truth. No matter how much she wanted to tell herself otherwise.

As the doter was growing more and more deaf from the silence, Flora found it necessary to start the memorial service herself. In reality she had no idea how to, and would prefer it if somebody else took the wheel from her hands. She had spoken at her parent's funeral, but in her mind. It was a disaster. Instead, she reached up to finger her pendant with one hand as she said, "I think since it might be a little difficult to start the... reminiscence, I could start by reading out something... I heard from my…parent's funeral. I'm only going by memory so this could be wrong, but here it goes."

She took a deep breath.

"Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room, I am I and you are you," she said mournfully as the words came back to her in the form of a sentimental longing of a time long gone. "Whatever we were to each other that we are still, call me by my own familiar name. Speak to me in the easy way you always used, put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow, laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we always enjoyed together." The flow of words from her memories seemed to reach a recession for she could no longer keep the flow of the Henry Holland poem. "I... don't quite remember how the rest goes, but I'm pretty sure of how it ends. If I get it wrong then I apologize, but I mean nothing but the utmost respect for David, Mickey… _Violet_," She sniffled at the mere mention of her deceased friend, "...and Melissa."

As those in the front pew remained rather silent, perhaps with the exception of the words Octavia were rapidly murmuring into Vicky's ear, Flora found herself slightly dismayed. She had hoped somebody would take the chance to mourn their friends, but it looked as though they had nothing to say. It was a darn shame, because Violet was one of her closest friends, the girl that would regularly invite her on spa dates, and would talk with on an utmost personal and non-sexually intimate level. _Sniff._ She also was fairly sure Melissa was a decent person, and while David was undoubtedly a jerk, she was sure he had an inner side that he didn't show easily. _Probably had an especially rough time growing up. _The only person she was not sure of was Mickey; while he was a close associate of Walter and was by all accounts a thug. Though, to be fair he did have amazing grades and was a very assiduous worker. As evidenced by Flora being his chem partner sophomore year. Maybe if somebody like Rodney who's more or less cut from the same cloth could prove to be good, maybe Mickey was the same. Regardless, it wasn't her place to judge anybody.

"Well, if that was all," she concluded with a bit of an exhale.

"Hold on," Roger piped up as the others began to shuffle from the front pew, "I want to say something."

Octavia and Vicky paid the boy no heed as the two made for the heavy doors of the small cathedral, Victoria dragging her assigned Remington Double-Barreled shotgun by its stock languidly, yet still with a predatory gravitas to it. They exited quickly, and disappeared into the outside world with even greater speed. The Italian boy who got up to speak allowed them to leave without any fuss because what he wanted to say didn't concern them. In point of fact, none of this had really concerned the duo, and so why they had chosen to stay behind for the makeshift memorial service was anybody's guess.

"I guess what I want to say is," Roger said as he was mindful of the eyes on him, even Flora's, "I don't want to pretend that we're not in a Battle Royale. I think we all know just as much as each other that we're in the thunderdome, and killing each other is the only way out. I don't want to pretend that this is just any Sunday, and we're all just normal Christian churchgoers. Vicky and Octavia know that as well as we do, that's why they're already gone, I think." He then added hoarsely, "I think they'll play."

He licked his lips out of tension. Averting his gaze from the four other grim pairs of eyes on him for the briefest of moments. He wasn't used to being listened to. As a baseball player, more often than not he had taken orders from his coach rather than dished them to subordinates. To have people listen to his thoughts with such intent was unsettling in a way, and exhilarating in another. He scratched his pimply, olive-skinned face and resumed speaking.

"I guess what I'm saying is, if you tell me who's the sick fuck running this game from behind the scenes and I came across him flaming in the street," he said with a grim smile, "I wouldn't even piss on him to put him out. But what I'm getting at is that even though I know after we part ways, we'll all be playing the game sooner or later, I hope we all remember that fact. That our common enemy isn't each other, but the fuckheads who have the temerity to figure that it was a good idea to put us in this deathmatch. Whether you win this... Battle Royale, or not, I just want us all to never forget. Don't become another Julia Friedland."

Flora nodded, but did not otherwise respond. Some of the others seemed somewhat saddened by what he had said. One of them didn't register anything at all, but on some causal link, all realized the potency of Roger's words.

"I-I think we're done here," replied Flora, "unless you would like to join me in... I don't know, I guess you could call it prayer, then you are always free to leave."

"Yeah," Roger said with a smile he couldn't quite muster without some force, "good luck, all of you." Those were the last words he spoke to the churchgoers before gathering up his belongings and quickly making his way out of the heavy double cathedral doors. He was soon followed by Shira. She made her way out the door almost like a shambling zombie; languidly, listlessly, and letting her body push open the door rather then her own forearms.

Rodney, who had said nothing until now, finally stood from where he had sat by during all that time. Instead of following the others and leaving the small cathedral, he approached where Flora was standing. She reflexively flinched, not used to such a large figure approaching her. _Oh, my._

"You did a nice thing," Rodney said to the girl gently, "really, it was probably the single nicest thing that had ever come out of a Battle Royale, and I mean that with all the sincerity in my heart."

In spite of the fact she wasn't attracted to him, she lightly blushed. He waited patiently for the girl to recover from her body stiffness and flushing of face. Once she was confident she could speak legibly again, Flora forced out, " Oh, umm. Thank you for the compliment, but I believe it's only the right thing to do. Anybody with half an ounce of empathy would have done the same."

"So that's why everybody already gone like they couldn't wait to get out of here?" Rodney said with a slight smile. "You could have cut the tension in here with a knife just now. I don't know if it's sixth sense, or some weird intuition thing, but you could just _tell_. Everybody in this room had been fearing somebody else would up and try to kill everybody else, and I don't blame them. I felt the same way."

"It's only human nature," Flora said hesitantly, not quite sure why the old Michael Jackson song came to mind.

Softly, she sang, "You know... why, why, tell 'em that it's human nature."

"You have a wonderful voice, I mean, you already demonstrated that back at the talent show, but. It's still fantastic to see even in this hellhole you still can sing like an angel." Rodney complimented sincerely.

Once again, Flora turned red of face. "O-oh, why thank you. R-Rodney." The pinkette stuttered.

Suddenly shifting to a serious tone, "Will you be staying here?" Rodney asked as he looked sternly into her eyes. "Until somebody comes along and do you in? Because you know that will happen."

"I know," Flora said with a sigh, "but it's just something I have to do. I don't want to spend my last hours in fear, and at least this way I'll know how I'm going. On my own terms. And I'll be doing some good karma."

"Good luck with that," Rodney said genuinely as he launched his pack over his shoulder around one arm. He left the small cathedral, leaving only Flora behind with the cartoonish depictions of saints and sinners painted on leaded French windows, ceiling murals, and assorted paintings about the farrago of church memoria. She was determined to remain nailed to the spot if she had to, but nothing was going to stop her from spending her last moments how she wanted it to be. World peace wasn't quite an attainable goal in this situation, but she would do what she could, starting by staunch pacifism and refusing to play this game. Even if she would have to do the worst... so be it.

Ambling over to the front pew, Flora sank down heavily. She could really use some rest.

* * *

Up until now, Victoria Sanchez had nothing to complain about in life. She was a girl who was plenty happy the way she was. Her marks in school weren't bad, her early career as a disc jockey at local nightclubs and events paid handsomely. And made her quite popular and got her access to plenty of hot boys and almost anything a party girl like her could really ask for. Before having been chosen as a contestant in the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale, Vicky had never once considered that there was anything wrong with the program. After all, it was every citizen's duty to not question the government and trust that they had the people's best interests always in mind. There may have been times in the past when she questioned the games exploitative nature and it's glorification of brutality, but those moments were brief at best. If you wanted to make it by in the world, you had to go with the flow.

And went with the flow she did. She was pretty and lively (if not a bit tomboyish) and capitalized on both greatly. She easily had a fast-paced, never a dull moment future ahead of her, she knew where the parties were at and even hosted many herself, popular without getting her into (too much) trouble. She knew how to do everything right. Hell, she _did_ everything right. By all rights she _was_ the American Dream (Especially considering she was born in Manchester, England). But now her American dream had turned into a nightmare.

She wound up in the Battle Royale.

After doing everything like she was supposed to, after blindly supporting a country whose positions she rarely questioned, she was taken into the Ninth Battle Royale. That fucking pissed her off.

Now here she was with her best friend Octavia, resting on one of the many park benches that surrounded a stone barbeque pit, there were a pool of other tables and benches surrounding facsimile barbeque pits. The picnic area was decorated to the nines, with wooden bench-and-table sets, red-and-white checkered quilts, and a border of firs and deciduous trees painted the color of autumn. Reminiscent of a time long gone when this area served the purpose of family fun and grilling food to serve guests and friends. As the morning sun set its graceful aura about the landscape, kissing the island with great care and sensitivity, it almost seemed poetic how such an innocent and wholesome place was now entirely abandoned. With the exception of it's two most recent occupants.

As she sat on the bench, cradling her double-barreled shotgun over her lap, Octavia sat next to her, flicking her assigned switchblade in and out.

They had gotten out of that pitiful little church as soon as they could have, and in Octavia's opinion it couldn't have been any sooner. She had never saw the point in these meaningless ceremonies dedicated to a mythological, non-existent deity, and if Vicky hadn't insisted they stayed inside to scout out for a slight while, she would never have set foot inside. _Dead people are dead, no use worrying about them. You got yourself and her to worry about._

"So what do we do now?" Octavia asked coolly.

"Play the game, I guess," Vicky mused as she considered her other options. _It's either that or die, and you don't want that to happen, do you?_

Octavia stopped tampering with her knife at once and perked her head up slightly; she stared with a borderline impassive gaze that registered slight annoyance only to the most seasoned of eyes. "Well Victoria, if we were ultimately going to play. You should've let me kill Flora the moment we saw her in the front of the church." She said in a cold tone.

Indeed, The sentimental doter had stood at the doors of the cathedral (in reality a replication of a cathedral on a smaller scale, compared to a normal-sized church it wasn't all that grander), and had called out for anybody wandering by to join her in the memorial service. Not only did it seemed she was unarmed, but she was just flatout advertising herself to the world like prime rib in a butchers shop. She had called out for people to join her, and against all logical reasoning, people had actually joined her. Rodney Woodrow and Shira Sweet-Belle were already there when they entered the cathedral (and it was Rodney's near constant presence that prevented Octavia from harming anyone). Outside however, the only thing that kept Octavia from killing Flora in cold blood was Victoria's insistence that they leave her unharmed, at least for the time being. Now she was sort of regretting following her friend's instructions.

"I'm sorry, but she seemed so sincere, and so sad. I mean, this whole Battle Royale gig is fucked up to oblivion in its own right, but murdering someone as sweet and innocent as _Flora Sharpe,_ That's like disemboweling a group of kittens with your bare hands fucked up! I couldn't go through with it." The Disc Jockey confessed. "I mean, I don't want to die. But I still couldn't do something that…evil. At least not to Flora, I mean she scared off a marauder without even touching him, where the fuck do you hear shit like that other then in science fiction?"

With that, Octavia let out a disappointed sigh and turned her head the other way. Sensing that the cellist was in deep thought, the other musician inquired, "What's on your mind, Tavi?"

"Nothing," Octavia's first instinct was to say, but then she immediately amended, "just thinking about what to do from here. And I told you Victoria, please refrain from using that pseudonym, it irks me." She complained with only an iota of irritation.

Victoria giggled. "Ahh Tavi, it only means that I care about you. You're my best friend…" Vicky admitted earnestly. "You're like a sister to me Tavi, we practically are."

"Well, I suppose you are right, we do share the same domicile, and your birth parent's are my legal parents in addition," Octavia said with her voice as monotone as ever. "So I suppose in retrospect we could be considered consanguineous on a superficial level."

"Yeah…whatever that means…" Vicky replied quite unsure of Octavia's dialect.

Vicky let her voice drift into oblivion as she pushed her signature purple-tinted shades into place on her nose.

"That simply means in theory we could be related, Victoria." Octavia simplified as she lackadaisically brushed her hair to the side with a loose swipe.

"Oh, okay." The disc jockey replied.

She said nothing for a prolonged period of time. Octavia likewise. Until finally Vicky stood up, evidently coming to a decision. She was cradling her shotgun like it was her child and announced:

"I'm ready, just so you know, if we need to kill anybody else to live. I know that's probably what's going to happen, and I just want you to know that I'm prepared to do it." She said with conviction as she ran one hand through her electric-blue hair. And rubbed her other around the belt bandolier of shotgun shells that was also provided in her duffel bag. _Boy is that comforting._

Octavia had felt this Battle Royale was a tremendous nuisance; she was on her way to stardom in world-famous symphonies, but first was Juilliard. She was willing to see to it that all other competitors fall to insure her own prosperity, with the exception of Vicky. She was the only exception to Octavia's normally cold as ice demeanor. After all, she was really her only friend, not because of looks or social ostracization or any other tripe matters like that. But just out of choice. She really was not looking forward to when they would have to fight to the death, Octavia could even relinquish the detail that she maybe couldn't even _morally _do it. But now that Victoria has consented to the prospect of playing, Octavia had to admit a degree of surprise.

"So, you're willing to play the game as well," Octavia said with an arrogant, yet still genuine smirk. "Good. I thought there would be a problem for a moment."

Vicky gave Octavia a playful shove. "Nah, if it's for our survival, then lets line up the dudes and all the chicks and give 'em a face full of buckshot, 'aight?" She proclaimed, hoisting up her shotgun for added effect. "Whatta ya say Tavi?" She added.

The two girls didn't speak for a modicum of time, until in return to Vicky's earlier provocation, Octavia flashed a dangerous grin, a predatory one that likely would've made everyone flee for the hills if they saw it in person (Something no one ever has- or wished to—see in person). She stood up from the bench to acquaint her friend, "Certainly, sounds like a plan Victoria. I suppose I could put this knife to some sort of use as well." She put forth with a thrust from her blade.

With a bitter twitch of the lips Victoria reiterated "Yeah. Let's do this." Loading up her shotgun, she added dangerously, "Not like we have anything to lose."

As a glint twinkled in Octavia's eyes, her normally stoic face turned into one of dangerous challenging like a Tokyo drifter to his heated rival.

"I second that sentiment." Octavia concurred.

* * *

Just as Flora was getting into a relaxed state, she never saw the boy coming. But even if she had, it would have posed no problem.

"Umm, Umm, Flora?" a meager and timid voice beckoned.

Flora tensed up immediately and turned to face the speaker. As it turned out, one person never left the cathedral, even though she assumed everyone did, this boy didn't.

Jerry Tran was standing in the aisle separating the two rows of pews. Nervously, twiddling his thumbs by his waist, looking down shyly at the currently less demure girl. _Hmm, I wonder what this boy needs. _Trying her best, she managed to force something of a smile to the boy. She did her best attempt to pretend that nothing was wrong, that they weren't in a Battle Royale in deadlocked competition for survival.

"Oh, um, Hi…um, Jerry is it?" She squeaked out. "Oh, um, I'm sorry I don't know your name very well."

The boy seemed startled for the briefest of moments before quickly responding, "Oh, um. You're right, it is Jerry…Say, umm I'm sorry about what...happened with your friend, Violet was your friend right?" He babbled bashfully. He crossed his legs and began blushing quite severely. Though his disposition was embarrassed, his eyes were sympathetic and bleary.

She sniffled again and felt a sudden weight in her heart, that certainly tugged on a heartstring, and certainly not in a positive way. She answered in a teary-eyed murmur that was about disparaging as could be, "Yes…she was one of my closest…friends…and now s-she's gone…"

She sobbed quietly and sniffled her nose some more, she would've cried. But she simply had no more tears to offer. It seemed as if her body had a tear limit, and she reached that quota an hour ago when she cried her eyes out, she was a blubbering, snot-nosed mess with a bleeding tomato for a face. Her whaling was of near biblical proportions, considering the last time she ever cried that hard was when she found out her parents were murdered. She simply could not cry now, it would hurt too much.

Jerry didn't really know what to say, he had come in…at least reasonably feeling like he could manage some sort of assurance, but in the specific case of the recently departed Violet Belle (former Girl#24). He was drawing blanks. When people surveyed Jerry, there wasn't really anything to survey. He was an average-looking boy with slight pimples on his sunburned tan cheeks, as well as simple dark hair. The fact that he learned at an early age that he enjoyed being the center of attention didn't make his so-so looks and bland personality any better.

The only thing slightly significant about him was his uncanny ability to make anybody laugh, even in the direst circumstances. He was the definition of a class clown, as well as somebody who was known to be the first to complain. Unfortunately, so far during the program, his class clown attitude hadn't done anything to calm his nerves. Of course now was most definitely not the time for jocose wit. He had to consult somebody, a girl of all things… a really hot and shy one…

Flora continued, "You don't know how much… I just wanted to g-give up, I only didn't because I don't have way to do it!" she sobbed out pitifully.

"I mean, look at me! I'm scared of my own shadow at times, no way I could survive out here. All of my friends are going to die, all of us are dead except for one if we're lucky." Flora cried out.

Jerry was stunned, Flora was always such a demure character, even during her eulogy to the recently deceased she was as timid and wavering as always. But seeing her full-blown concede to imminent death was something that left the Vietnamese boy speechless, and nearly breathless. She further drove the point home.

"My parents were murdered, one of my best friends has been murdered, and I'm sure me and the rest of my closest friends are sure to meet the same fate. Alone, unloved, and at the hands of one of our former colleagues turned axe crazy!" Her voice had gone from wimpy and mawkish to a fervent near-shout.

Jerry opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by Flora.

"You know," she stated with a gulp. "I've been wondering if there is a heaven, if so. Do you think Violet's there now?"

"Umm, I'm not a religious person. But Violet seemed nice enough, if I were God I wouldn't see why not. Same goes for your folks, bless their souls." Jerry prayed. She gripped Flora by the shoulders and locked eyes with her, _It's time to be bold Jerry, you can do it, do it for her. _Flora stopped bawling at once at looked at him with innocent doe eyes, the moist tears glistening them to the point of shimmering pools of teal.

"One thing I can assure you though is that, regardless of wherever Violet is now…I'm sure she's watching over you…H-honestly, even though I may be an atheist, therefore not believing in an afterlife… the one thing I can wholeheartedly acknowledge is…at least wherever Violet is, even if all her consciousness has faded into oblivion and is truly no longer in any plane of existence…at least she has been spared the hell of this game." Jerry lectured sentimentally. He was sure this was the case with all of the contestants, and soon to be him and Flora. But that was the silver lining to this cloud, in his opinion at least. _Is it better live a monster, or die a good person?_

Flora's eyes seemed to glimmer with dazed comprehension; the tears still shimmered like reflexive pools of crystal water. But she at the very least was reticent; she sniffled with the wrinkle of her nose and nodded.

Jerry let off his hands, his body feeling somewhat heated.

"Umm, well…Thanks Jerry, I-I suppose there really isn't anything I can do except for pray for Violet that the underworld is a forgiving place for her, and also Shira, that her last days of life are peaceful and painless. If there is a heaven, I hope they're going there, I hope we all are." Flora prayed.

"G-God have mercy on our souls." She added in despair.

Flora weeped with the tear residue collecting on the outer edges of her eyes, she wasn't sure if she could produce new ones, but the act of sobbing still felt natural.

Jerry looked away grimly, until he realized the other reason he stuck around and waited to talk to the doting girl.

"Hey, Flora. Can I ask you something?" Jerry asked curtly, he then immediately amended by saying, "I know it's tragic that your friend is dead. And I'm sure she's not even close to being the only one to pass on. I don't want this to be bad. I hold no illusions that it won't be, this is going to be quite bad I think, but I can still hold out some hope for humanity I guess."

Flora gingerly opened her mouth and spoke, "Umm, I'm sorry-Jerry. But w-what exactly do you mean?" she said quickly and demurely with her signature soft-spoken acoustic.

"I guess what I'm trying to get at is… Well, this is incredibly cynical and pragmatic yes. But, I think that there is nothing that can be done for Violet now, the only person you should really worry about now is yourself." Jerry reasoned. He wasn't exactly taking into consideration emotional propriety when he made that statement.

Flora sniffled woefully once more, how could he be so…insensitive? Perhaps he was right, in all likelihood he absolutely was correct. But Flora's emotional disposition and sentimental nature usually didn't allow such utilitarian thoughts to pass at the expense of rectitude.

"Umm, I'm umm, sorry Jerry. But how can you say such…a cruel thing? These were lives, sentient beings that we grew up with for years. Each with feelings, dreams, friend's families. And you're acting as if they're expendable!" Flora argued; she honestly wasn't quite sure of the words spilling out of her mouth, they weren't choice ones anyway.

Jerry sighed; already he had gotten into an argument with one of his crushes. _Of course it's the one who's too nice for her own good._ He was bearing a faint blush on his cheeks that was thankfully camouflaged with his naturally rosy skin. But he couldn't afford to be prolix. He needed to get to the point.

Jerry audaciously pulled Flora into a hug, not a forceful one, but a gentle one. He wrapped his wiry arms around her and lightly patted her on the back, then gyrated it in a circular motion. She yelped at first

Lightly breathing in, and exhaling, he resumed his mantra.

"You're right, that is insensitive to me, I may be disregarding their lives like nothing. However, I'm more concerned for those who are still alive, for the time being at least. Which brings me to the reason why… I stuck around in the first place." Jerry said resolvedly

"Okay, umm, what might that be Jerry?" Flora questioned sensitively, wiping the tears from her eyes, her anger from earlier seemingly evaporated.

"Umm, I don't know exactly how to ask this so I'll say it quickly…"

Okay, Now Flora was very curious. Jerry stopped the embrace and let Flora go.

He inhaled a long breath of air before continuing, "You know how you hang around Mitsumi right? Like, you all seem to be incredibly close friends right?"

Flora raised an eyebrow in confusion, yes they were very close friends, and Flora was extremely concerned for her well being. But she still didn't know how the boy's question was relevant to her. She sniffled once more.

"Umm, yes?" she answered, very much befuddled.

"Okay. Umm, if that is the case. Can you call her for me? I'm sure you have a cell phone and are in close contact with the girl." Jerry requested.

Flora knew the words that were coming out of the Asian's mouth, however. The subject matter she couldn't grasp. Why would this boy need to be in contact with Mitsumi? To her knowledge, they were never close before now. In fact, Flora was absolutely certain that she had never seen the two together before. So why he would inquire about getting contact with her was a complete enigma to Flora. She gave Jerry an askance glance.

"Why would you need contact with her? I've never seen you two together as a couple before, and you never seemed to even be friends." Flora questioned uncharacteristically sternly. "So why now? Are you planning on doing something to her?!" Flora said in a voice that rose in volume tremendously then how it was prior. Almost like her temper was like a boomerang. Jerry yelped and took a step backwards. Then wavered his hands in panic.

"No-no-no-no! I promise that's not it! It's just…She told me she was going to try to escape, and we ran into Carlos outside of the starting bunker and then there was a ball of blinding light, and after that we got separated. I haven't heard or seen any sign of her and don't have her number." He explained hastily. "Oh, and she also has my pack and my weapon. So I kind of also want to find her for that reason as well." He added.

Flora's skepticism to Jerry's true motif had evaporated at this explanation, that wouldd explain why he came in without a pack, and why he'd want to see Mitsumi directly. The alibi seemed to check; yes it all made sense when she thought about it. With her conjecture foregone, she felt safe enough to heed the Vietnamese teen's request.

"Okay, well you seem kind in spirit, and honest in intent, unfortunately though I got in a little bit of a scuffle with Abigail earlier and my phone was destroyed. I'm sorry." She said apologetically.

"Oh…Okay…" He dejectedly responded. Thinking quickly, Flora offered a remedy to this dilemma.

"Oh, but umm, I can give you her phone number, I happen to have it memorized. Isn't that lucky?"

Jerry instantly perked up. "Oh really? Thank you Flora! Seriously, Thank you so much for this!" He thanked, copiously grateful. Flora blushed lightly at his excited thanking.

In order to fulfill her suggestion, she zipped open her duffel bag and took out her delegated pen and contestant roster. She ripped off a small piece of the paper and wrote down a phone number, Mitsumi Sato's phone number to be exact. Once she jotted down the number, she handed it to Jerry, who gladly took it; his eyes brimming with excitement and joy. Now, Jerry was never known for being bold, at least in his actions. He was a tried and true loudmouth, and a rather edgy joker when it came to clowning. Yet the fact remained, he was normally very reserved when it came to his actual behavior. In spite of that nuance however, he immediately wrapped his arms around Flora and gave her the mother oh all bear hugs. A hug this constricting was one that Flora knew all too well from affiliating with Diane Pye, on one of her _very _happy days. However, she hasn't built a _complete _immunity to such powerful squeezing, a similar analogy would be like a boa constrictor choking the life out of it's victim, not that Flora was in danger of actually dying, but she almost couldn't breathe.

"I-I'm sorry. B-But I ca-n't _breathe!_" The suffocated woman managed to choke out, and fortunately Jerry heard it with perfect lucidity. He retreated and sheepishly cowered down, his face as red as a tomato.

"Oh, umm. I'm so-so-so sorry Flora, it's just this was such an awesome favor and you're super duper pretty and I've always wanted to do that and I just can't thank you enough!" Jerry squealed out in rapid succession with immense excitement, and profuse gratitude.

Thinking of no other to respond, she meekly mouthed a 'thank you' to him. She never could retain even an iota of confidence whenever someone poured massive amounts of emotion on to her, especially not in confrontation. He stuffed the scrap of paper into his jean pocket; he then whipped his hand out as a gesture of goodwill. In kind, she shook it cordially, with a kind smile on her gorgeous face.

"Oh, umm, you're welcome, Jerry." She said with a motherly tone.

"No-no. Thank you again. Say, is it alright if I stay here while I make the call?" He asked.

"Why of course, why would I need you gone?" She questioned rhetorically.

Jerry flinched. "Uh-uh, I don't know. I-I just thought, ma-maybe you wouldn't want me around…" The boy stuttered out anxiously.

"Well, it would be nice to have company. Even if we're both unarmed." Her look turned to one of contemplation. To a much bemused Jerry, she said, "There's a gas-operated hotplate and some tea bags in one of the pantry cupboards. I think we could both use a cup of nice, hot tea, don't you?"

"Yeah…that sounds great." He said dreamily. He couldn't believe he was actually spending time with Flora Sharpe! Arguably the prettiest girl in school, she even offered to brew some tea for the both of them! _Who woulda thought the Battle Royale had shit like this? Man, I wish I had been better acquainted with Flora back in the real world._

Suddenly remembering why he had stayed behind in the first place, he snatched out his cell phone and the slip of paper and quickly dialed the number on the devices keypad. He hit the call button, and the automated ringing stimuli fulfilled its purpose for a few moments, before cutting to voicemail.

"Salutations, this is Mitsumi Sato and I am unfortunately unavailable at this moment, for whatever reason is open to speculation. In any case, please leave a message and I'll try to get back to you." The automated, pre-recorded voice of the girl in question spoke cordially.

_Shit._

"Have a nice day!" it chirped vivaciously after the memo had been conveyed. Then a harsh beep played, indicating Jerry now had the option to leave a message in the hope Mitsumi is alive and able to hear it.

After a tense moment of quiet deliberation, he spoke into the phones microphone, "Hey umm, Mitsumi. This is me, Jerry." He deeply inhaled a lungful of air, then exhaled. As a form of square breathing, he learned it was a method useful for relieving stress, and for him it felt so tense that you could barely cut the strain with a machete. "If you get this message-Hey, by the way, if you're curious as to how I have your number, Flora gave it to me. So thank her, I guess, if you want." He babbled apprehensively. "Anyhoo, I guess if you want to know where we are, me and Flora are in a cathedral in Zone G2 on the map, or if you don't wish to trek over here, please alert us on your whereabouts so we can be on our way. 'Kay? Please respond if you can. Alright, hopefully I'll see you soon. Okay, bye." With his rambling concluded, he hung up the phone and jammed it into his pocket once more.

Flora observed him with distressed eyes that shimmered with empathy and hope like two teal pools of clear Caribbean Sea water on an ideal summer day.

"How'd it go? Is she okay?" Flora asked with brimming interest and worry.

"Voicemail." Jerry replied indolently, feeling as disconsolate as ever. "Oh." Flora let slip out, her previously hopeful face turned to one of crestfallen despair, she let her head droop down in defeat. But feeling some solace, she managed to explain, "Well, umm. The chances of her being alive are still decent, she wasn't on the announcement an hour ago, I know they're not updated by the hour, but still. Mitsumi is very smart. I'm sure she's figured out some way to keep herself out of harms way, right?" even though Flora expressed this theory to another person, it was a dichotomy of where she wanted to mitigate the dreadful atmosphere for Jerry's sake, but yet her own as well. In fact, she was likely doing this own her own volition to convince herself Mitsumi was still okay, let alone her other friends.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Jerry responded with false conviction, he wasn't even trying; he was in a grim mood.

"Well, I guess all we can do is pray. And this might be insensitive of me, but, I feel like sitting down all mopey isn't proactive at all, neither is what I'm about to do, but I'd like to say keeping good karma and good spirits is better then in constant fear and paranoia." She stated with a philosophical bearing to it.

"I'm going to brew some tea, umm, would you, umm, care to join me?" she asked shyly, twiddling her thumbs and posed in an awkward stance.

Jerry just stood slack-jawed, mouth agape, and severe blush.

"Uhhh, you, me, tea?" he sputtered out incredulously.

"Umm, yes. Are you okay?" Flora questioned, unsure what the cause of his sudden speech impediment was.

Regaining his composure, he stood stiffer and said, "Umm, yeah, sorry about that." He let out a halfhearted giggle immediately afterwards.

Wrinkling her nose, Flora gently smiled at him. "Oh, okay. Well, care to join me?" she repeated.

"That sounds lovely." He stated in the most mature and endearing voice he could manage.

She smiled brightly at the Vietnamese boy, "Excellent, follow me." She requested in a cherubic diathesis.

She turned around and began to walk down the aisle of pews to the back office, Jerry followed close behind. As he was observing her walk cycle, being the hormone-fueled adolescent he was, he couldn't help but let his eyes drift downward towards her…_rearview._

As he watched her magnificent, bombshell rear swished back and forth, he blushed a color of dense red, like a strawberry while a thin line of drool flowed down his heated cheek; lechery deluging through him. For the time being, he almost forgot he was in the Battle Royale.

_Oh. My God. Thank god for yoga pants! Her ass looks sooo __**HOT!**_

He reached out to sneak a touch when suddenly inhibitions reminded him that letting his other 'head' doing the thinking for him was not a good idea.

_But this is Flora, I can't do that…without her consent…I wonder if I'll be able to get some ass before the end of this. If so, Flora Sharpe as my first time? Not bad for a days work… I'll wait until the next announcement before calling Mitsumi again…yeah, sounds like a smart idea. Right? In the mean time…_

He concluded his lustful mental monologue by resuming his previous activity, ogling Flora's posterior once more.

Flora suddenly spoke, "Oh, umm, by the way… I'm sorry for raising my voice at you earlier, I hope you don't take offense." Flora demurely cried out.

Jerry was jolted out of his fixated ogle and swished his head upwards. "Oh, umm. It's quite alright, I should have stated my reason beforehand, so I guess I am to blame as well." He admitted sheepishly, trying to appease to the shrinking violet before him. He planted a hand on the back of his head and looked off to the side.

"Oh, umm, well. It doesn't matter now. What kind of tea do you prefer? Green, Earl Grey, Black…Chamomile? " Flora asked charitably.

"Green please." Jerry shot back immediately

"Excellent choice Jerry. That's my favorite as well." She responded in kind.

Flora didn't notice due to staring ahead (though she still felt nervous anyways), and Jerry didn't notice due to…the previously mentioned thing he was ogling. But there was a person watching them through the window next to the heavy double door. Unlike the majority of the mosaic windows that were a conglomeration of polychromatic designs and artistic renderings of biblical figures, these ones were translucent; and he was watching their every move through it.

He kept a close eye on the duo as they made their way towards the altar, behind that, past the podium where priests once used to stand as a figurehead to guide dozens of churchgoers and devout Catholics, Christians, and Evangelicals alike in their pursuit of praising and finding God. Then into the Sacristy (back office).

_Soon…Soon… can't let them slip away, can you?_

The boy knew he couldn't attack just yet, he'd need to find the most appropriate time to strike when their guard was down or they were separated…until then, he would only watch from afar.

_Man, Flora's ass looks far better in leggings, am I right? _He thought to himself as he pressed his hand against the dingy glass, rubbing on it in vain to clear out the grime to get a more lucid visual.


	15. Hour 8: 45 Contestants Remaining

He had counted the gunshots as they came, he had made it a habit by now; enumerating the number of explosive echos off his fingers whenever he could. Due to the sporadic of the gunfire, and the variegated rings of the gunshots and variations of volume and tune, it was exceedingly troublesome to specifically chalk up what guns were used or who had them, or if they were even fired by the same model, by the same person. Though what was clear was that not only were there people with guns around here, there were a lot of people with guns around. Either that, or there was someone with a lot of guns. Both possibilities did not fit into his ideal scenario, but if there was one thing that Michael Yunin, a.k.a. Boy #9, knew, it was that only the resourceful could successfully diffuse a less-than-ideal situation. He hadn't been assigned a gun, nor a knife, not even a tangible club or blunt object. Instead, his issued weapon had been a disposable camera.

It didn't matter. So they assigned him with one of the game's truly crappiest weapons, but he could make do. Nobody told him he couldn't be resourceful. There were perfectly capable weapons hidden all over the playing field. He would find one of his own before long...

Even better, he would simply just make one.

Michael grinned to himself. He was in a room full of shelves of equipment. Old green jump suits, model kits, helmets, all remnants of a past army; in short, his version of the motherlode. He had set out his assigned weapon, if it could be called that, on a workbench.

It was a cheap bundle of plastic, circuits and wires, and a small capacitor with a single AA battery as a power source, one that could be purchased at Walgreens for a price of only 5 to 10 dollars. To anyone else, it would have been an egregious excuse for a weapon. For the Russian boy, his mind worked a mile a minute, whirring round and round. He knew he was resourceful, already he knew a solution to make this useless piece of plastic into something of a lethal shockwave.

Michael was a veritable genius. He knew that. His friends (as few as they were) knew that. His family knew that. At the age of 5 he took apart his first TV. At 8, he created a remote-controlled plane about the size of his arm. At 12, Michael had won a junior competition at school by creating a working car engine. At 17, just a year ago, he had successfully made his first working computer using scraps from the junkyard. Although he accidentally used so much power it turned half of his neighborhood's electricity off, transitorily of course.

So the crappy camera he had, had so many possibilities. Michael tapped his head in thought before he searched through the storage facility he was in.

Unfortunately, he had been the 3rd to last person to exit the bunker. Which prompted Michael to sprint all the way through the forest and into what he figured was an old military complex, according to the map that hung in a pouch around his neck, and what he observed in his surroundings. He knew military bases. This was one of them, that much he was positive of. He spent most of his time hiding in the brush and sprinting with all of his might between covers to keep safe. The general layout of the army compound was identical to a lot of military bases he had seen and been on. Rows of barracks, a mess hall, an infirmary, an airfield complete with a runway and hangars, a firing range, a radio tower and all sorts of assorted outbuildings. There were trails all over the place, but most of the buildings were in considerable disarray. Most of the stuff had been left over since the Vietnam War he guessed.

He had found the base on the near the northern most tip of the island, and considering how listless and reticent his surroundings were. He deduced that this area was void of any other contestants, for the time being at least.

Michael had chosen the storage facility as the least obvious place for a player to go. The barracks were way too obvious, being it had ammo. Michael had checked (he didn't own a firearm, so he deemed that information as superfluous). The mess hall was also a bad place to go, as it had a lot of packed food. And the infirmary as well, medicine and basic healing provisions and supplies, not nearly as good as the Cold Rivers Center for Emergency Care back home, but enough to extend the life of a wounded individual, bandage some lesions, alleviate some pain, basic first aid. All that good shit.

Michael gave a cry of success, "Eureka!" an exclamation of discovery. He found what he was looking for: A Phillips screwdriver, needle-nose pliers, and a tiny plastic case full of paper clips. _Oh Yeah._ With the small screwdriver in hand, Michael set to work.

It took only two minutes for him to carefully take apart the camera without harming any of the electronics. After another five minutes, Michael had a makeshift taser at the ready. Grinning to himself, the Russian boy clapped his hands together in success.

It was so easy, all he had to do was attach two paperclips to the cameras capacitor, replace the battery with a store-brand one (he quickly found several boxes of Duracell batteries where he found the pliers). And close the camera, and now he had a contraband capable of dispersing 300 milliamps into whatever unfortunate creature happens to get zapped by it. 3 times more electricity then what is required to stop a human heart! That made him feel good. Police issue stun guns can generate 50,000 volts of current, a mighty number indeed. However they aren't lethal, at only 3-4 milliamps. The jury-rigged stun gun he was holding in his hand however was one hundred times more lethal!

With the comfort of improvising his own deadly handheld element of the gods at his disposal, lightning in the palm of his hands! _Bad to the bone baby!_

He couldn't wait to see the effects something like this would have on a human!

Hearing the faint, but ubiquitously familiar sound of gravel being scraped in tandem with a mezzo forte thumping. He turned around and dashed to the window by the door away from the workbench, peering outside he saw a girl, with a formidable looking gun. Instead of feeling fear or bereave like many would expect, he instead felt glee and near overwhelming excitement. It seemed like he wouldn't wait to try out his toy after all. _Okay Mike, here's your target. Don't fuck this up, the costs, and the rewards are too great for you to mess up here._

Inhaling a deep breath, he made a subtle movement that would still hopefully get her attention.

* * *

The quadrangle at Cold Rivers High School was not a usual hangout for the two girls, but the fact that more than half of the school's seniors seemed to be missing for the day made it a much more accommodating place than usual. The fact that it was Senior Cut Day for Cold Rivers was certainly the obvious reason for such a unfamiliar feel on loneliness about the grassy milieu, Senior Cut day...the day just before Grad Night. There wasn't anybody else they recognized in particular, just a lot of lower classmen taking advantage of the seniors absence such as utilizing the Senior deck as occupational space for lunchtime as a brisk alternative to the insipid cafeteria, but more than all else they were just glad that the school's normally rancorous, virulent social hierarchy was on a vacation for the day, and once Grad Nite concluded, faced permanent retirement for the Class of 2009.

While content in their own world, the pair knew they were not the most likeable girls in the school, a combination of wealth and isolation had made sure of that. Still, it was nice to be able to enjoy the sprightly weather while having lunch and chatting about whatever was on their minds. Sitting down on blankets draped over the healthy earth grass, the two girls continued to converse.

"So, how come you didn't cut today?" Pamela Ridley asked her friend nonplussed, flipping her hair to the side then taking a sip from a plastic straw submerged in a bottle of cream soda. "This, if anything, is the perfect opportunity to light up some cancer sticks and give yourself cirrhosis of the liver without principal Drummond getting on your ass. Why'd you skip that chance and actually go to school, girl?"

"Simple," Lily Marsh shot back calmly, tearing off the elastic saran wrap that clung to her tuna sub like adhesive, "Wanted to give one last goodbye to this old shithole an' all...plus I know you had to retake a math final today, and I figured it'd be nice to catch you during break, catch my drift?"

"Aww, how sweet of you." Pamela commented. At this point Lily had unscrewed the cap on a concealable bottle of nail polish, taking a few perfunctory glances at her nails in the summer's sunlight to determine how much tidying up her nails deserved.

"Yeah, I know, I'd totally make the perfect girlfriend and shit. Just need to learn how to get the reach-around's down and I'm golden." The two laughed at Lily's lascivious quip, certainly nothing out of the ordinary for Lily behind closed doors, if anything it was one of her verbal trademarks to those who knew her best, yet somehow it never overstayed it's welcome with either of the socialites.

"Anything happen while you were busy trying not to flunk?" Lily asked idly, paying slightly more attention to whether she should apply either lavender, or cyan nail polish to her digits.

"Well, I think Spencer Ryan, Jake Andrews, and a few of the other jocks went streaking across the quad earlier. Recall one of 'em getting tackled by Raymundo during their escapade." Pamela said torpidly while searching her memory banks for the details of the ordeal.

"Heh, awesome!" Lily responded enthusiastically, "Were they hung?" Lily inquired while leaning in closer to Pamela with a sultry undertone.

"How should I know?" Pamela said, exasperated. "I wasn't looking down there, I don't like those assholes."

"Oh BS, you know you'd hook up with them given the chance." Lily shot out.

"Well, they're hot. But like I said, assholes." Pamela replied calmly, pushing her glasses up her nose cursorily. "I mean...they weren't like...small, but I still don't know how well-endowed they were." She elaborated further, appeasing Lily's earlier question, though with more than a modicum of embarrassment present in her voice and stature.

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Guess not...Let's just change the topic, 'kay?" Pamela said guiltily, looking away with the slightest of blushes on her face.

"Okay." Lily agreed.

Riding on the coattails of that lewd remark to keep the conversation rolling, Pamela transitioned to something that concerned both of their very-near futures. "Well, that was really funny. But, being serious for a moment, isn't it fantastic that we're going to Disneyland in less than a day? I most certainly can't believe it." She said animatedly, "What do you wanna go on first?" Punctuating her remark with an audible slurp of soda.

"Disneyland is great and all," Lily began with a bemused smirk, "but seriously though. That's our creme de la creme? I personally would've done like Paris or Cyprus or something like that."

"Ahh, well, tragically are school isn't as rich as you are, you know?" Pamela admitted frankly.

"True, true, but my dad gives assloads of money to this place y'know, it's almost like it's his own lil' think tank."

"I guess, but still, Disneyland's still awesome." Pamela reaffirmed with a friendly smile.

"Yeah, even a rich bitch like myself still can't deny that." Lily admitted modestly, a smile of her own crossing her pretty visage.

"You know, on account of how tomorrow's the last day we'll ever see everybody and all, I'm thinking you absolutely have to tell me this," Lily said as she daintily daubed her fingernails with lacquer, "who'd you hook up with given the chance?"

It was a question that they had asked each other time and time again, but Pamela still considered the question in all seriousness. Finally coming to a conclusion after several moments thought, she answered truthfully, "Well, Russell's pretty hot, and Rodney's got that whole bad boy thing going on, in a theoretical situation I don't see why not. Nathan Blue would be hot if he wasn't such an egotistical pretty-boy douche all the time. Aside from that, you know, Isaac's hot and all but I don't think I'd do anything with him even if you paid me, too many strings attached you know?" _Leonard's kinda cute too, too bad Violet has a monopoly on him._

"Yeah, I get what you mean, the guy's liable to get himself in some serious shit with one of the bitches he slept with any time now," Lily replied as she held her hand out in front of her and admired the way her fingernails looked in the sunlight. "Isn't his latest flavor of the week that Russian chick?" she asked.

"Yeah, I believe so. Natalie. Or Natalya is her name…I believe its Natalya." Pamela answered while pushing her glasses up her nose in place.

After a succinct moment of time, Lily went on a different tangent, "I always thought Logan was pretty cute too, if he weren't already taken I'd go down on him."

"You're not his type," Pamela said simply as she ate a forkful of a Greek salad.

"And you know that how?" Lily mused.

Swallowing a mouthful of feta cheese and oily mixed greens, Pamela replied without missing a beat, "I mean, come on, I know we're both hot enough to threaten Mitsumi and her crew, but even you gotta know that's not what he's into. He's a politically savvy kid with straight A's and like a black Winston Churchill. Popular buxom girls like us don't interest him one bit, I mean shit tons of girls have wound up into him, he could've had the pick of the litter, and yet he somehow ended up with Brianna Hughes, how do you figure that one out?"

"I don't know...I really don't. Though he is kind of a dick at times." Lily said with a laugh. "Hey, you wanna hurry up and finish that Weight-Watchers crap? I really need to grab a smoke and maybe a hit of vodka, get buzzed, take the edge off things, you know?" She said as she brushed her auburn hair to the side.

"This isn't 'Weight-Watcher's crap' first of all." Pamela begun, slightly irritated, "And second, is that really the best idea? If anybody catches you hammered in school one more time, old Drummond's liable to get you kicked off Grad Night," Pamela said with exasperation. "Wouldn't kill you to leave the drinking for tomorrow, would it?"

"How else do you think I got through the past four years?" Lily asked sarcastically. "And either way my dad's got enough influence to get me out of any kind of shit and Drummond knows it, he's not gonna give two shakes of a lamb's dick if pop can help it."

"I guess, but I just wish you'd cut back on the booze and the cigs, you know that stuff could end up killing you some day," Pamela said, visibly irritated. Lily's ongoing alcohol and tobacco use had long been the source of endless arguments between the two friends, but by the virtue of their friendship they had avoided altercation time after time. If they had been any less close than they were, it probably would have ruined their relationship, and Pamela was thankful for that. Lily was her best friend through and through, a little reckless at times maybe but all the same she couldn't imagine being without her.

"Sweetie, you know I don't give a shit about that. I'm gonna die young, might as well make the best of my time while I'm here," Lily said as she fished out a half-filled cigarette pack from the pocket of her jacket, deftly withdrawing a stick from the box. She lit it and inserted it between her lips.

"Die young, huh?" Pamela said as she found herself lost in her thoughts. Neither of the girls were remotely near the intellectual type, and mortality was not one of the topics they brought up often. Heck, aside from a Billy Joel song, the phrase "die young" never even struck a chord with either. Shit, most of the time between the two girls, their conversation revolved around the unsubstantial happenings on TV and around town, to hear Lily talk about her future like that in no uncertain terms was a bit unnerving. _Then again, graduating from high school, no other time like it to think about what's gonna be in your future, is there? College, partying and hooking up with guys you really shouldn't hook up with, make your fair share of mistakes and bad decisions, and then what? Settling down isn't really your scene, but what's there for you to pursue?_

"You know what really gets me though?" Lily said as she exhaled smoke.

"Uh, off the top of my head, still not being able to get into Roger Lombardi's pants after so long?" Pamela said sarcastically.

"That, and the fact that we've been saying goodbye to so many people," Lily replied. "I mean, we're all graduating from high school, that's a pretty huge deal to most people if you think about it. I don't think we realize it right now, but there's gonna be a lot of people we'll miss after it's over. Lots of memories here, you know? For all the cliques and all the clichés, it's hard to say I'm not actually going to miss this place."

Not quite knowing how to put the words together, Pamela could only nod and say, "Yeah, I get ya."

Neither had any idea how true their exchange dialogue was going to become. Instead they continued to munch on their snacks, and smoke their smokes. Blissfully unaware of the hell they would soon be flung into…

"Oh, you know who else I forgot to mention?" Pamela interjected. Returning to the previous subject.

Lily raised an eyebrow and looked at her with a curious glance. "Whom might that be?" she asked.

She leaned in for effect. "Hank, Macintosh." She answered with a pause as to emphasize the gravitas of the person in question.

"Ooooo. Yeah, he's good. God I'd just let him split me apart like an apple core." Lily commented sultrily while Pamela just burst out into a fit of laughter.

"I wonder how he-you know—" Pamela tapped her finger to her chin, pondering the proper way to phrase her sentence."—Measures, down there. Not that i'd no...he didn't streak."

"Heh, damn morality. Oh well...I'm willing to bet there's a reason they call him 'Big Mac'." Lily said slyly.

"Oh yeah. I wonder why he brushes off all girls' advances? Seriously, he has that Flora girl and Cheryl Lee hanging off of him, as well as so many others. Yet nothing. What's up with that?" Pamela responded with inquiry.

"Eh, beats me girl. Maybe he's gay." Lily suggested curtly.

Pamela gawked at that statement. "What, no way. Not an All-American, family man, football star like him. No way, maybe we just aren't trying hard enough."

"Maybe, remember how I said I knew I was gonna die young?" Lily reminded. Pamela nodded in confirmation.

"I think something on my bucket list should be bedding Mr. Mac, imagine that. A hard working, caring, sexy country boy like Hank, being seduced by a _high class Madame such as myself!_" She said dreamily, concluding her narrative with a mock imitation of that rich bitch Violet's voice.

Pamela had another fit of hysterical laughter, a conniption of giggling.

"Yeah, that should be on my bucket list as well. Hey, if we have one of the same goals on our bucket list, we can pursue it together." Pamela suggested with an evil grin.

"Huh, what do you mean?" Lily asked with a hint of confusion.

"My proposition is, if one of us manages to get him to lay. Maybe we can share him in the bedroom, if you get what I'm saying?" Pamela snidely insinuated.

"What? A three-way? I'm sorry, but I'm not bi." Lily reminded.

"Neither am I, but we're close friends, seen each other naked before. And It's not like we're gonna be having sex with each other. Besides, isn't like every guys dream to have sex with two girls at once? I think that'd be are best chance at him." Pamela reasoned with crudely erudite logic.

"Eh, I suppose that is quite astute of you Pamela, maybe we should do that over Grad Night. He's going on our bus, right?"

"Correct-a-mundo!" Pamela said in an affirmative voice.

"Awesome, sounds like a plan!" Lily expostulated.

Sure Pamela liked to maintain a squeaky clean, straight edge image. But between her and Lily, that social front melted away like the bright light of day in the parties of the 6 PM. Pamela did indeed want to have sex, and while she had the pick of the litter of guys due to her beautiful looks and inherently high popularity stature around campus, most nights she found herself sleeping alone with nobody to keep her company but her large collection of stuffed animals. She was the cream of the crop for fucks sake, but quite frankly, she only really wanted her crops to be reaped by Hank…maybe with him as the farmer, he could make _any _part of her as creamy as canned corn.

Pamela chided in amusement; with Lily soon joining her.

* * *

Pamela Ridley, a.k.a. Girl #18, could only marvel at how long ago that day felt. It had been maybe, what, a week, four days (_depends on how long you were knocked out_), and already it felt nearly a year ago.

Even though that discussion about bedding Hank was only a half-joke, and the last thing she could remember from that picnic. The words before about dying young where the ones that caught on, the ones about making a future for herself stuck in her psyche, they had ringing to them.

She never really took those words she had heard from after-school specials, counselors, or even Lily seriously until now. It seemed like none really had relevance to her, until now.

She didn't have much of a future before the game, now she especially didn't have one. Back then, she thought she was merely going to have a dead end job and a crappy life, now it seemed like she would have no life at all. She actually did kind of miss high school now, not just saying it nonchalantly at a frail attempt at understanding, but now those cliques and other kids she despised so much, may now just prove to be the death of her. She could only chuckle softly at the irony of it all. If the universe had a sense of humor, it was most certainly in play in this game.

She felt like it was almost fate she was in this game, perhaps this is the single-handedly largest piece of evidence to the existence of God. The fact that she, out of all the students, of all the rabble-rousers and plants that the school had, she was one of the ones they chose as one of their best. One of their prominent features. They had to have her psych files, they had to have her medical files, so they clearly knew what kind of a person they were getting, and all the same she found herself intrigued. _Who knows why you're here, but there's no denying that you are something special in a game like this. _In reality she was mostly only chosen for her looks and abnormal fixation to Lily, but that still never crossed her mind, though she presumed that it was a considerable factor.

As she pondered her circumstances and the planetary alignment of divine intervention that forced her into this situation, she shambled down a haggard Main Street of Hillsborough's formerly bustling and ebullient atmosphere of the stereotypical downtown area that seemed to be located in almost all suburban towns in the developed world. _Oh look a Laundromat, look some restaurants, look a post office, so many places, so many faces. Huh? _

"_Worn out places, worn out faces. Bright and early for their daily races, going nowhere…_" Pamela hoarsely sang to herself, a great B-side by good 'ol Tears For Fears. It was petty she knew, even truer it had no benefit to it, but damn if it wasn't a great song; She needed a smoke.

As her thoughts went on, her body forced out a pack of Menthol Light's that fit snugly in her designer jean pocket. She stuck it compactly between her lips and accompanied the cancer stick with a flick of her lighter. As the tobacco conflagrated, and the acrid smoke and chemicals calmed her nerves while simultaneously flowering out into the cold air and wrecking her lungs. She couldn't help but think: She wasn't a habitual smoker, but there were times that it certainly took the edge off, unlike Lily who smoked so much, it was almost like second hand smoke just having her breathe on you.

_Shit, every little thing is reminding you of her, huh? Just what the fuck, why do you have to make this so difficult?_

Just as she cogitated that thought however, she couldn't help but think of how Lily managed to look so rejuvenated and young and healthy despite her colossally mal habits towards her own body. _Isn't something how tobacco, aside from physical health. Makes you look worse? Like ruins your teeth, wrinkles skin, and other horrible crap like that? Ugh._

Pamela could only shudder to imagine what kind of ugly beast she would turn into if she were a persistent smoker. She concluded that awful conceive with the second puff and exhale from her cheap liquor store pack of cigarettes. As the nicotine did it's job in stimulating her pleasure centers, and the carcinogens began to exit out her mouth with the latest drag of the cigarette, she began to hum a favorite tune of hers; the lyrics resonating in her mind.

_I met you on somebody's island, You thought you had known me before, I brought you a crate of papaya, They waited all night by your door, You probably wouldn't remember, I probably couldn't forget…something, something, something. I probably could forget the lyrics to Jungle Love…_

She chuckled out loud with that mental treat.

As she hummed the melody, and as the song echoed pertinaciously in her mind, lyrics that she couldn't quite place scribing along the walls of her brain in an attempt to calm her nerves in cooperation with the nicotine stimulants. She was blatantly unaware of the boy who had been steadily following her for the past two hours now.

* * *

The boy had had quite an unfavorable time in the Battle Royale thus far, having being shot in the ear, and letting his first target and opportunity at facilitating a gun within his grasp slip away. He had the notion that things were beginning to look up though; the bleeding had stopped several hours ago. The shirt wrapped around the wound had caused the blood to dry and scab over the tear. It stung and itched, as well as permeated a redolent stench, but hopefully those were the earliest signs that it was healing. Aside from that he had found another target, another girl to be more precise. Things were definitely getting better, or at least not worse, right?

His T-shirt kept drooping down over his eyes. It was frustrating, to say the least. After all, Walter was too worried about shifting the shirt around to fix it properly. It appeared that his ear had finally stopped bleeding, and the boy didn't want to risk opening the wound again. So he endured the shirt tied around his head, constantly trying to tuck it back behind an ear or something of that kind, if only it meant that he wouldn't have to remove the article of clothing to redress the wound he had received in the third hour of the game.

He was still angry about that injury too. He replayed the scene over and over in his head, driving himself insane with alternative scenarios that emerged with him standing over that cunt's body, the icepick in one hand and a gun in the other. Walter would have been a fucking god in The Program with that kind of weaponry.

Nevertheless, all he could do for now was bitch to himself, not aloud for fear of another ambitious player taking him out of course. Walter Peterson, a.k.a. Boy #3, had been following the girl for some time, but he still hadn't found the right opportunity to make his move yet. He was fortunate enough to find her before wearing himself out too much. She was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, quite obviously somewhere between terrified and confused. It wouldn't be hard to get right up in her grill and kill her. The more he thought about it, the more he was able to justify it within his psyche, the easier it seemed. _Yeah, this game is murder, isn't it? That's what they want you to do, so it'll be okay if you do it. You have the means..._

He thought to himself, referring to the icepick he concealed within his fist, ready to strike and impale at a moments notice.

He didn't dare to make his move just yet though. To kill the girl required a precise strike to the skull that would stab clean through bone and brain matter, something he certainly couldn't do while she was running without regard for her own safety like that. If only he had a gun, he could simply fire away and kill her instantly, but he didn't (_Fuck you Berry_). With only the ice pick to do it, he had to wait.

The girl had been running for some time now, nearly the better part of the two hours since he had found her. She might be fast, but he was faster and he managed to keep up with her. Soon enough she would tire. She would need to stop and catch her breath, or check her assigned map, or perhaps she would simply have to find a hiding place. And then he would strike. Bring down his fist with the ice pick concealed. She would go down, there was no question about that.

Smiling to himself, Walter still managed to keep a close eye on the girl he was stalking. _Can't let her slip away, can you?_

He ducked down and pressed himself against a parked car on the street, parallel to the various businesses on the east side of the asphalt. More than anything else, this actually surprised him. He had been wondering why there seemed to have been no cars in the town and simply assumed that people took them with them when they abandoned the town. Always having considered himself something of a motorhead, Walter felt up the car and observed it meticulously, from the side he was taking cover behind. Trying to keep his profile as low as possible, He analyzed the vehicle in his mind. _Hmm, GM Cutlass, seems to be a late seventies model, not bad. Though I think I'd take a Charger or a Barracuda, something loud enough to wake the dead, any of__ that good shit._

Peering over the hood of the vehicle, he shot his eyes open in surprise. He saw her lighting up a cigarette, and taking a drag of it, letting the acrimonious smoke pervade the crisp air. Leaving herself completely vulnerable; now was his chance!

It wasn't exactly now or never either, but as things would have it, it did feel a whole lot like that as well. He had to do it now, before the girl turned around, before he lost the only opportunity in the past hour or so. Dumping his pack behind the car and stifling the urge to scream, Walter rushed at Pamela Ridley with every intention to kill her.

* * *

Abigail Macintosh a.k.a. Girl#10, gripped her hands tighter around her Mac-10. After she had found it encased in the grandfather clock located in the foyer of that McMansion five hours ago, she certainly felt levels safer then without it. Though it seemed that once she finally got her hands on her coveted weapon again, that's when everyone decided to disappear. _Come on Abby, in previous games it was so rare for the person with the machine gun to go this long without seeing anyone! Just what the heck is this? Is this thing a human repellant?_

She had traversed the island almost like an M.C. Escher painting. Up, down, left right, north, south, east, and west. All over the fucking place! And in spite of covering so much distance in such a patently haphazard fashion, she had yet to encounter any other contestants. The last interaction with any human she had was with Flora all the way back during the first hour of the game.

Though, looking for other players to kill wasn't the only thing on her mind. Mentally backpedaling to the announcements, she thought of the four recently deceased.

_Hmm, David you killed yourself, so no surprise there. Fucking chauvinistic asshole. Mickey was…okay, I guess. Surprised one of Walter's lackey's could've been whacked so quickly in all truth, and by a string bean like Joel Hellmuth of all people… I know nothing about Melissa. Violet...Poor Shira…_

She was never the closest friend with Shira's stepsister Violet in all honesty, to Abigail, she was merely her best friends best friend. And as cruel as this was, Abigail found Violet to be a pedantic little trollup. She didn't want to speak ill of the dead, but honestly, Violet was something of a superficial bitch. Far too concerned with looks, fashion, and other tripe matters that should have been of no concern. Even though Violet did nothing overtly wrong in front of her, she couldn't help but get a bitchy vibe from the fashionista. Just from certain things she did and said, her tone when addressing people who weren't as punctilious or aesthetically pleasing as her, as well as several other of her mannerisms led the country girl to believe: _Ehhh, you're kind of a bitch._

Now she was dead. As tragic as it was, she was now dead. Letting out a soft sigh of melancholy, worried about her best friend's well being, and streaking a hand softly through her bright red pageboy haircut, her fingers caressing through her hair, stopping at her oversized pink bow. She retreated her hands. Now was not the time to worry about others. _You cut your ties with everyone the moment you decided to play Abby, yes girl. You can't think about Shira or Scotti, or Mac and AJ. Spike. They'll all bring you down; No one but yourself…I really hope they don't think less of me. God, what happened to the Three Musketeers, me Shira and Scotti, to being a family? Titans? Go Titans!_

She looked down with melancholy at the dusty trail she was walking along, dirtying up her shoes with light brown powdered dirt, she idly kicked some amorphous pebbles and watched them skid along the natural path. She followed the misplaced rocks and found herself in a circle of sand where all other dirt pathways crossed into and mixed, losing their original identity; just like they all were… This was the circumcenter of the trail ways that winded, stretched, and reached all areas of the military complex on the island of Hillsborough, yeah. Apparently a decrepit military base with aging infrastructure was put on the same island as a once world-famous sea resort… makes perfect sense.

Buckling her arms up and bracing the stock of her machine pistol against her shoulder, she then scanned the immediate area in her peripheral vision through the iron sights of the submachine gun. She saw multiple dilapidated buildings, several edifices that were gradually being swallowed by the encroaching wilderness. _Fully facilitated my ass. _She felt nearly like a soldier in one of those "First-Person Shooters" that Spike would play with her (Mostly her just watching him play and caring mostly that it was him, not the actual game). What, with her armed with a machine gun in a forsaken Army complex on an evacuated island enveloped by forestry… it seemed like a plausible setting; something that could perhaps qualify for a decent action portrait.

Squinting her eyes, she could read the faded black letters painted above the doorways of the buildings. One read 'Inf-r-ry', another 'Mess Ha-', and multiple ones had "Bunker #..." on them. From what she could deduce from reading the obscured letterings, there was an infirmary, a mess hall, bunkers that likely were used to house the regiments of soldiers housed here an undetermined amount of years ago, a radio tower in the distance. A firing range with multiple faux-humanoid paper targets set up (each had multiple punctures dotting them like a colander, obviously from use as target practice for many, many soldiers in training). And a menagerie of various other buildings. If what Julia had said in the classroom earlier was true, then this place was fully stocked, perhaps not with guns. But at least some form of equipage that could serve some sort of purpose, ranging from trivial comfort, to extending her life through re-hydration or nutrition. Who knows, for all the potential this place had, it could prove to be a metaphorical gold mine! _Will most definitely have to explore these buildings in greater detail…most definitely._

Suddenly, she saw a flicker of movement in one of the opaque windows of a nearby edifice, accompanied by an incipient tapping noise.

That was enough to send panic and excitement coursing through her, another target! She was playing for keeps after all, she hadn't been right in the head since she vowed to play to win. So really who cares if she was being a bit more proactive then others.

She reflexively gave two tugs of the trigger, sending a volley of bullets forward, slamming into the window. It created several holes the size of a baseball and enveloped further by turning the window into dozens of independent shards of glass. She fired conservatively, keeping in mind her limited supply of ammunition. She was definitely handling the recoil better than earlier, practice makes perfect! Right?

The pungent odor of gunpowder was rich in the air enveloping her nostrils, but she didn't care. A short thought occurred to her that it could've potentially been one of her friends or one of her siblings, but that thought didn't last long. It would've been too damn unlikely that a scenario like that is what's reality. The intrinsic part of her mind was primed and ready, she could do this! _Shoot to thrill baby… I love that song!_

She sprinted to the storage facility, trailing earthbound clouds of dust with every pace and rocking the machine gun cradled in her hands as she jogged like a soldier in an FPS shooter. Once she made her way to the porch of the warehouse, she pressed herself against the wooden surface of the front wall adjacent to the doorway.

She mentally braced herself for whatever trouble may lie in there, for all she knew that person had a gun pointed at the door. But she was never known for being prude, or modest in strategizing, she was a risk-taker. All or nothing.

With a steely gaze in her eyes, she kicked open the door like a badass SWAT officer conducting a drug bust on some poor bastard on TV, It probably wasn't necessary, but it did raise her another level in badassery.

_Okay Abby you're in. Now just find whoever's in here and empty the magazine into them. Err, no, conserve ammo. Just one bullet in the head or heart oughta do it. Just chill and let the gun do the work. Think of a song or something. Lynyrd Skynyrd, Allman Brothers. Bon Jovi. 'Cause I'm a cowboy, and on a steel horse I ride, I'm wanted…dead or alive!_

Music wouldn't help. She was still scared and her damn fingers just wouldn't stop trembling.

As she cautiously scanned her immediate surroundings for any opponents, she had her machine gun held forward in one of her trembling hands, swinging it around with her line of sight.

From what she could see in this building, there was metal, scraps, tools, appliances, electronics, and a cornucopia of other fixings as far as the eye could see. This was an engineer's wet dream! The motherload of junk, who knows what kind of contraptions an ambitious anarchist with the faintest awareness of mechanics could construct within these confines, _no one, that's who!_

As the morning sun poured in, diffused, through the shattered window, it superimposed all of the individual dust particles and mites as they scattered through the air like electrons in an atom. She did a modest cough and covered her forearm over her mouth for the briefest of moments, before pointing it forward again. As she continued to examine the shelves and crates filled to the nines with miscellaneous scraps and electronics, she was completely unaware of the gaunt boy squatted underneath the workbench he was working with a mere two minutes ago…already plotting and getting ready to strike.

* * *

Hearing the rapidly approaching thumps combined with the sound of screeching rubber meeting asphalt, Pamela Ridley whirled around and was greeted with the sight of Walter Peterson barreling towards her, ice pick in hand raised over his head, ready to bring it in wide arc down. The wind rushing against his sprint caused the flaps of his leather jacket to blow back, almost giving him the visage of of a caped crusader, but Pamela knew better; the icepick in his hand and his wild, almost feral face was more than enough of an indication to tell her he was a villain.

In shock she let the cigarette in her mouth fall out and hit the sidewalk as well as dropping her lighter. For a moment, she was like a deer caught in the headlights. She was petrified as her mind went into a state of fight or flight as her breathing tensed, her heart beat exponentially faster, and she gained lucidity of vision. It almost felt like things were in slow motion.

In midst of the panic, a thought suddenly came to her. It occurred to her that she had a weapon. Reaching for the handle at her waist, she made to pull out her Bowie knife… unintentionally she pulled out her nightstick instead. The baton slid out in one smooth movement, then it was in her hands, juddering from her constant movement as well as the uncontrollable shaking of her hands. Could she really do any damage with this? In able hands it would be an adequate weapon, but in hers it might as well be a rusted flintlock pistol for all the potential it held.

She watched, almost in slow motion how she swung the tonfa vertically, tunnel vision solely dedicated to watching the police baton and making sure it hit home…which it did.

She saw how her baton, with both hands acting almost like a baseball bat, smashed straight into Walter's temple. There was an audible _BOP! _There seemed to be jet of saliva and perspiration (and even a tiny amount of blood) that flew backwards as the baton transferred its kinetic energy from Pamela's arm, into Walter's head. Pain exploded all over the side of his cranium, it was rocked and the delinquent was sent sprawling to the ground with a miserable groan, the lights in his brain turned off for just a split-second before switching back on. He collapsed to the ground, disoriented and hazy. He could feel his heartbeat in his head, and it hurt like a motherfucker. His head was throbbing with fresh pulsating pain, and for several moments was too hurt to even move.

Capitalizing on this opportunity, the stunned but by no means suicidal Pamela whimpered weakly before turning around and running for all she was worth; no way was she going to allow Cold Rivers High calling card criminal to do her in. She stuffed her baton back into her belt and hauled goddamn ass until she could no longer see the boy she had struck down behind her. His accursed sputtering still echoed in her ears, but he was still gone.

_Holy shit, I just beat down Walter. Peterson! The most dangerous student at school, holy fuck. I'm awesome! I-I can't believe it! How cool would it have been if Lily saw that! Or Hank, or Lily and Hank?_

Running down the back alley between the Hillsborough Post Office, and of an Army Recruitment center, she wound up sprinting until she slid and ducked for cover behind a dingy dumpster. The dull stench of trash residue crescendoed within her nostrils, but she beared the burden anyways, she just needed a spot to catch her breath clandestinely.

Again and again the scenario kept replaying in her mind, almost like it was a crucial play on an ESPN football game.

The fluidity of the entire counter-attack, the trajectory the baton was swung, how stupid Walter looked when he had his face smashed in with said baton. She almost couldn't believe how easy it was. It was essentially just do the hit, and that was it.

There was a time in the Battle Royale where she was deathly afraid. Everything in the dark forest seemed to be alive. She saw hunters waiting for her and their rifles angling at her head from the trees. She knew it was all in his imagination, she knew it was all just a dark fantasy, but that didn't matter. In her mind, everybody had been out to get her. There hadn't been a time during the day when she hadn't thought of her life being at stake.

The modernized metropolitan areas hadn't fared much better; it felt dismal, intimidating, and outright frightening with the concept of people threatening her life, just around the corner of the next building. She had no idea where the edge of the knife could be.

But now that she had triumphed over one of the biggest and baddest hunters of them all, she felt like she could take on anything.

_Yeah, that's all fine and dandy but don't get cocky Ridley. Sure in school you could mock and push around Abby and Shira with Lily. But out here, they may just be the ones to do you in. You've dealt with better, but modesty still needs to be in place, isn't that what grandma used to always say? 'Don't get a big head, Pam.'_

"Hehe, yeah Granny." Pamela timidly said to herself, attempting to lighten the mood.

Well, maybe not anything. But she felt like she was on higher footing then she was earlier in the day. _Ahh, but fuck. I skipped over a bunch of buildings, ehh. Walter probably isn't dead, I'm not even sure if he lost consciousness. Maybe I shouldn't go back there yet._

She managed to escape the frying pan, so why on earth would she hop back in? Also did she land in the fire? Was another question to be asked.

It was senseless putting herself in harms way when it wasn't necessary, Sure she wanted to find her best friend and spend her last moments on Earth with her. But still, she had to _live _in order to make it that far, she couldn't let any of the monsters of the game kill her before her mission was accomplished. Hell, Pamela was 100% certain that Walter wasn't the only one who decided to play. According to the announcements, Abigail, Joel, Trixie, and Nick were all playing. They all committed murder, that's a crime punishable by death back home! Of course ironically they're dealing out death to survive! Kill or be killed! And the even worse part was that there is no way in fuck that they are the only psychos, normally this game churns out at least a dozen individual players. _I bet it will be that camel jockey, or that manic basket case Diane…it's not normal to be so happy all the goddamn time! How about Andre, that dumb, violent sack of shit… god knows who else…this game changes people… Julia is proof of that._

_It's just like Hunger Games, or Running Man. Except this is real, you're not fucking Katniss Everdeen or Arnold Schwarzenegger. You're boring, plain ass, white as sour cream Pamela Ridley! Still can't believe Suzanne Collins got away with that shit though._

She would have to play conservatively in order to hope for survival, spend the night hours searching and the day ones hiding. Or something along those lines.

In all truth Pamela wasn't smart enough to come up with an elaborate, formulated strategy to find Lily. It was mostly just go from Point A to Point B and hope for the best. It wasn't that she was dumb, it's just she never applied her brains to independent thought; she was an admitted cog in the machine. A follower, not a leader. Her relationship with Lily was a testament to that.

_Ergh, I'll just wait until the next announcement. If she's still alive by then, I'll resume looking, if not…let's not think about that now. I'd better find a place to stowaway until then._

She really didn't have to look far, she was between an army recruitment center and a post office, both were signs of federal government. But since something that extolls people to the military, the very same regime that places teenagers not only in wars globally, but in smaller scale wars for the entertainment industry!

That was a monument to the evil known as the American Government (something that Pamela admittedly was blindly complacent with up until this point). So she sided with hiding in the post office. After all, who would want to go into a post office for any reason?

Getting up to her feet, only then did she realize how messy the Battle Royale had made her disposition. Her glossed lacquered nails were slowly fading; the shiny pink polish was chipping away slowly but steadily, grime was gradually making its way underneath her fingernails. _How filthy!_ _Really going to need a manicure after this! _

She tried sliding a hand through her normally luscious hair, but found that it was fighting back. Her hand got caught in it; the split ends and moisture from perspiring so much had caused her hair to become a tangle of split ends and dye cluttered with twigs and dirt. It wasn't too bad just yet, but still a cause of concern for Pamela. After all, back in schoolif you weren't hot, you were out. _Stop being delusional Pamela, worrying about your looks won't do a fucking thing…don't I already know that? Still…I wonder if there's a spa around here…_

* * *

Abigail never saw it coming. In a flash, Michael jumped to his feet from underneath the workbench. His face and clothes smeared with crude oil and lubricants, as well as covered in a sea of dust and grime. He ran toward Abigail without making so much as a sound. With the prongs of his makeshift taser jutting out of the plastic camera bunched in his fist, he had the flash properly charged and was ready to do some damage.

The prongs were the first thing to touch Abigail, on her neck. Feeling a prickling sensation she made to reach out to touch her neck, but alas didn't make any other movements…Michael pressed the shutter button.

The blue electricity danced for a millisecond around the side of Abigail's neck, causing all of the hairs on the primary layers of her skin stood up on end. Before it integrated into the flesh, singing it and causing what appeared to be smoke to escape out of the shockwave. The instant the capacitor sent it's raw energy into Abigail Macintosh, she let out a bloodcurdling screech of unadulterated horror and pain, feeling in excruciating detail the raw current flowing through her torrentially from head to toe like a river.

The beeping light that monitored her heart rate redlined as her heart was going through ventricular fibrillation and tachycardia. It beat faster then Neil Peart's drumming on crystal meth, she convulsed and twitched uncontrollably as 3 amps of crude power exploded through her like a fireball. Michael couldn't help but think back to those old fashioned cartoons that aired on Saturday morning as he watched in awe what his contraption was doing to his target, how whenever a person was electrocuted it would superimpose their skeleton through their actual body, if this was a cartoon, Michael imagined that's what Abby would look like right now.

She continued to screech an impossibly high screech until finally, Michael released the button. Abigail's eyes fluttered, then rolled into the back of her head as the world seemed to swirl in delirium. She remained standing for two more seconds, then she crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. She remained motionless.

Michael looked on in wonder at the sheer power of his jury-rigged shocker. _Holy shit, it's like the power of the thunder gods in the palm of your hand! _Looking down with wild and excited eyes, he fixed his gaze on the gift Abigail left behind; her Mac-10 was still clutched in her cold, presumably dead hand.

He treated it as if it were a Christmas present, a delightfully morbid one. It appeared to be one fitted for 9x19 Parabellum rounds. Effective range: 70 meters. Magazine size: 32 rounds. 1100 Rounds Per Minute. _Yeah, bad to the motherfucking bone baby! This mechanized bad boy will sure be put to good use under my care._

He quickly scooped up the gun, prying it from Abigail's unmoving fingers. He then unzipped her bag and took out all of the spare ammunition, multiple magazines fully loaded. The excess water bottles and generic bread rolls would prove useful as well, he also purloined the pack of cigarettes he found underneath the rest of her unnecessary fodder. He stuffed all of these belongings into his own duffel bag and zipped it up.

He jammed his camera taser into his pocket, it slightly protruded out of his pants. But it wouldn't matter, it was snug enough. He slung the machine pistol by its cloth strap over his frail body and let it dangle at his waist.

Once he was certain he had the proper gear and rations gathered, he glanced at Abigail's unmoving form one more time. He considered pumping 12 or 15 shots into her body and then unloading the rest of the clip into her head, but he knew he needed to conserve his limited supply of ammo. _Besides, I've shocked her with enough electricity to kill a rhino. It would be overkill anyways._

Thinking of nothing better to say, he remarked, "Dasvidaniya, buttercup." with traces of both sarcasm and wry. With that being said, he doubled over to the still open wooden door and made his way out to the circumcenter of dirt trails, wildly looking around. He took notice of the airfield, apparently during Weber's hey day, it's airport was located within the confines of military infrastructure, _Wow, can't even take a vacation without Uncle Sam breathing down your neck. _He sprinted over onto the asphalt from the dirt, dragging dust, pebbles, and powder with him.

He strolled down the decrepit concrete runway, looking around he couldn't help but feel a twinge of both intrepid exploration, and loneliness. Like this place was abandoned, yet so was he. They both shared something common he supposed. Sliding a Marlboro cigarette between his lips, the boy lit the cancer stick with a practiced maneuver. He was standing out in the open on the islands well sanctioned, but unused airport with a cigarette in his mouth and a machine pistol in his hand; by all rights he should have been terrified for his life. Instead he felt like a gunslinger in the Wild West, or even a lone survivor in a post-apocalyptic world. _All that's missing is a badass Stetson to shield my eyes from the sun._

When all of humanity fled the scene, he was the stalwart wanderer who traveled the urban landscape in search of what he both wanted, and needed. _Heh, nice monologue._

Mad Max-esque madness seemed to be around him, not discord. He was sure it was occurring elsewhere on the island, for now it was tranquil isolation.

As he inspected the lonely aerodrome, he took notice of the multiple hangars scattered all around the hodge-podge. Solitary structures that were as colossal in size as they were to inspire awe. Such vast and towering edifices, monuments to storage space, icons of the evolution of aviation, aircrafts, the need to shield and house such advancements of human progress and technological development. They varied in size and degree, some seemed to be designed for one-person aircrafts, others commercial airplanes, and a few seemed to be for storing multiple blimps at once!

As the orange morning sun loomed over the monolithic storages, he couldn't help but feel wonder at how surreal the whole atmosphere and photogenic scene before him. _Can't help but think this belongs in textbooks. Maybe not school ones, but ones in flight school. _It was a little difficult to look in the direction of the sun's rays, but he had enough foresight to make out what he was looking at. Like the skyline of a small town, big buildings and small buildings juxtaposing one another. He would spend the next several hours meticulously exploring each hangar and utilizing this small, yet well-provisioned airport to it's full potential. Being it was conveniently located on a military complex that was equipped and facilitated to the teeth, which would also equivocate to there being a cornucopia of supplies for him to work his mechanical magic on.

_Given the nature this is an aerodrome, and aircraft hangars are all over the place, that gives me a damn good idea on a possible escape plan. It's gonna be time-consuming, tiring, and a fucking assload of work, determination, and planning. Not to mention resources and bodies to make it happen…not to mention it being a shot in the dark, but an idea nonetheless, better then staying around and dying like a helpless bitch or murdering your classmates, correct? _

As he scratched the thin, nearly non-existent goatee on his chin, and loosely fingered his collar. Michael Yunin's brilliant, yet insufferable mind began to formulate the mother of all plans, the most daunting and endangering one ever in his life.

As he began to heave the massive hangar door open with all of his weight; the stakes were higher then ever before, a scenario with no loopholes or fallacies with the only outcome being either freedom or death, Michael began to envision what most considered both unthinkable and impossible.

Escaping the Battle Royale.


	16. Talking to the Dead

It was white. Bright light, a bit harsh, but at the same time not all that unpleasant. She opened her eyes, rubbing the sleep from them and wondering where in the heck she was. This wasn't what she remembered, no, she remembered the forest, the base, she remembered the island…she remembered agony and fear.

Where the girl was, she didn't know. She felt like her head was going to split regardless.

"Oh Gawd." She groaned. Fresh pain still radiated from her neck and spread throughout the rest of her body like a pulsating series of rays.

She lifted her head off of the hard surface that it was rested on. A desk? What the hell? Was this briefing all over again? If so, the room sure seemed familiar and much brighter then the one that forced itself out of her subconscious.

With the whole world rocking around her, she wondered a lot. Was she dead? No, there's not supposed to be pain in death…right? Her throbbing skull and overwhelming sense of nausea was enough to tell her otherwise. Was she in the Battle Royale still?

She was bleary-eyed and her vision was little more then an unreliable blur and prismatic painting of certain colors and vaguely similar objects. _Desks, posters, door, whiteboard….school…ugh._

This sensation she was familiar with, after all, she had experienced it earlier that morning.

After rousing with the throbbing head for a few minutes, she wondered if it had all really happened. Was she really at Weber's Seaside Resort, really in Battle Royale? No, that could not be true. It was all just a bad dream, it had to be. The throbbing must've been from staying up too late watching TV and drinking too much apple cider. Yeah, that was it, she stayed up too late and got a little tipsy. Wouldn't be the first time.

Her mind flew by as a series of macabre snapshots traveled through her brain, a disordered and gloomy classroom, a machine gun in a duffel bag, a horribly mutilated corpse disfigured by dozens of gunshot wounds, said machine gun encased inside a grandfather clock, a dusty old room with shelves and shelves of electronics and scrap metal. Then…her memory was quite hazy after that…_was_ it all a dream?

Remembering something, she shot her hands to her neck, and instead of feeling the cold metal collar like she had half-expected, she felt her own warm and smooth flesh instead of the explosive leash.

_Was that all really a dream? Did I just fall asleep in a classroom? There were collars in the game…am I home?_

Sizing up her surrounding's with clearer vision, she took notice of the various movie posters plastered around the room, and banners with varying proverbs of wisdom from multitudinous innovators, speakers, and intellectuals throughout history.

"_War doesn't determine who is right—only who is left…" –Bertrand Russell_

_"Beware the fury of a patient man." –John Dryden_

_"Those who make peaceful revolution impossible make violent revolution inevitable."- John F. Kennedy_

All of these quotations seemed extraordinarily familiar. Though, one in particular stood out from the others. She couldn't tell if it was due to style of print, or pigmentation, or what. But one of them still inexplicably made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Hardly believing her eyes, she read it aloud nervously, as follows:

"Life is pleasant….Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome…"

She for the life of her could not place why those bits of words formulated by Isaac Asimov rattled her so profoundly, but that innocuous bit of philosophy regarding life and death sent a caressed chill down her spine.

Despite her familial upbringing being of Christian faith, she herself was an agnostic. She didn't buy into the whole pearly gates or fire and brimstone that was the two possible outcomes of the afterlife; Heaven or Hell. That's precisely why she wanted to avoid the permanent dirt-nap for as long as possible. Because it was permanent.

"I don't want to die_._" She muttered dumbly.

Like Mr. Asimov and the majority of similarly brilliant thinkers and intellectuals, she wasn't religious. She refused to believe in a supposedly omnipotent, omniscient, invisible divine daddy that was benevolent, yet allowed war, disease, murder, and egregiously heinous shit like the Battle Royale exist…she couldn't say that though, she used to love it; until she… uhh, dreamt? She was in it.

"Ms. Macintosh," a stern voice spoke, startling the Missourian girl out of her thoughts. She craned her neck around and looked bewildered at the man before her.

"Class is over. The picnic has started and I don't think you want to miss it." He continued.

Looking to the other side of the room, she noticed Ronald Vaughn, her former history teacher, behind his desk. He had his feet kicked up on the desk and had an open copy of Peyton Place sprawled out across the oak desk, while in his hands he tuned his trademark acoustic guitar, strumming a series of notes to test whether he had tuned correctly. Abigail found herself at a lack of words. Normally it wouldn't be a problem talking to Mr. Vaughn, he was one of the nicest teachers around and willing to talk to anyone about pretty much anything, but given the fact that the last time she'd seen him he had his head gruesomely blown off his shoulders by an explosive collar, it did strike her as odd as how he was seeing him in the flesh. Face included.

"Go on," he said with a smile as he attempted stringing the chords to Stairway to Heaven, "they got ice cream over there and I'm sure they'll be running out soon if you don't run on over there."

"Thanks," Abigail said blankly, still trying to get a gauge on the situation. It couldn't all be, could it? Was this all just some vivid dream? Was everyone still alive, and the Battle Royale just a figment of her imagination? Was she losing her mind?

"Have a good one." Ronald said genially as he leaned back further in his office chair, giving the girl a blissful grin on her way.

"Oh, umm...you too." She replied confusedly. She was still rubbing her hands against her temples trying to dab out the throbbing and collect herself. Then she exited out the door.

As she left the classroom, feeling sunlight hit her face in what felt to be the most pleasant of ways; enough where it actually caused her grogginess to seemingly melt away into the air. She could hear music off in the distance, a cheery yet familiar jingle, classic rock, good stuff.

She passed by the all too familiar hallways decked out with facsimile sky-blue lockers and checkered tiled floor ways that seemed to stretch all the way down the corridor that lead outside. It seemed to be like a web of passages that for some reason seemed entirely empty.

She had now recognized where this place was, after all she had spent the past four years attending it for about thirty-six weeks out of the fifty-two. It was her high school, Cold Rivers High, home of the mighty, mighty Titans!

Yet that was just the problem, normally these halls were completely cluttered with students of every grade, both genders, every race, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, across the board in terms of personality and physique…yet it was all literally absent here, it was just her and the building itself it seemed. Remembering what her history teacher told her, she realized they must've all been outside. Something about ice cream and a picnic.

Making it to the quad, Abigail surveyed the landscape and noticed about the hodge-podge, there only seemed to be…around a dozen other students if her counting was correct. Further examining their faces, they all contained happy smiles, blissful grins and laughter. Something about this seemed remarkably familiar…picnic.

And that's when she it dawned on her like a sledgehammer. This was the senior picnic, or at least some weird incarnation of it. Mere hours after graduation, and Grad Night was soon to follow. It was to be their one last hurrah, and it truly made Abigail-before she had the # 10 to her name-sad. High school had brought her some of her lowest lows, but at the same time it had some of the greatest moments in her life. She'd met some of the best friends she thought she could have.

On the grass, she saw the kids all eating ice cream and sandwiches. There was Jeremy Snell and Gideon Kershaw sitting together on a blanket, smiling their trademark goofy smiles and dopily laughing at a very animated story being told to them by Miguel Rivera. Jeremy in particular was laughing so hard, he nearly let his scoop of strawberry ice cream fall out of his wide-open mouth. Normally Abigail would find that quite revolting and immature, but in this circumstance, she couldn't help but giggle to herself. _That's…kind of adorable, actually._

But still, Abigail saw that Jeremy was violently murdered and hanged in the induction video, but the other two kids she had no idea why they were there. They had a boombox directly next to them that was the source of the music she had heard in the hallway.

She listened to the euphonic classic rock song as it echoed throughout the peaceful quad.

_"Sun is shinin' in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight. It's stopped rainin' ev'rybody's in a play, and don't you know It's a beautiful new day. Hey, hey."_ The boombox sang as ELO's 'Mr. Blue Sky' continued to flow out of the speakers. And how appropriate; the atmosphere was just that, a clear blue sky.

Looking away from the trio, she saw Adam Quintel, Mickey Chiang, and Melissa Kimble were brutalizing Gillian Davis, Alex Golden and David Langston in a quick game of flag football, not that any of them seemed to mind. There were smiles all around as Adam scored a touchdown. Even as Alex was knocked to the grass by the gargantuan boy, it's not like he really seemed to care. Alex got up all the same with a toothy smile wide with happiness on his face as spirited laughs were given by all six involved. All the happiness in this perfect moment seemed to overrule all bad in the world.

Violet Belle was situated on a blanket of her own, one that appeared to be constructed of very fine silk and other fabrics in an alabaster schematic. Next to her was the former president of the student council, Mare Mayer. They both begun cheering as Adam made the goal.

Abigail sighed as she looked to their faces. They were all so happy, all full of life. They were all as they should have been and wanted to be, not ugly on the inside, not frightful that they won't make it through the next day. No, they were all happy, all looking forward to a future that wasn't going to come. She finally understood the causal link between these kids. They were the dead; the crops that the Battle Royale both reaped and sowed. She knew that around her they were all dead, shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, torn apart. They were torn apart by each other. We were all family not too long back, when we graduated we were all family and now it's come to this? It's come to a point where everyone has gone away and now... Now I'm one of them...my heart must have stopped when I-

"If it's any consolation, you're not dead," a voice from behind said optimistically, "you want some ice cream?"

She turned around, her hair fluttering in the warm breeze. There she was, in the flesh. Scotti Lou, her body free of bloody holes and bruises. She sat at a bench with a bowl of ice cream in her hand and more than enough covering her lips.

"It's rocky road," she said enthusiastically, "really good."

"Wha..." Abigail trailed off, "where are we? Is this-"

"Heaven?" Scotti asked, finishing Abigail's sentence for her. Scotti simply shrugged her shoulders, "I dunno. The best I can figure is that it's something of a dream. We're all here because we're supposed to be, good, bad, otherwise, in the end we've all got it equal."

"Huh, but…what are Gideon, Miguel, Mare and Adam doing here? They weren't in the video, or in the game, right?" Abigail asked.

Scotti gave her a smirk. "Wow Abby, I never realized how forgetful you could be. You are right on those charges, but… May?"

"Uhh…the month where someone cemented an AMC Gremlin on the senior dock? And also when Spike got his braces off?" She asked quizzically with her southern twang.

Scotti gave a light-hearted chuckle. "Those where both hilarious! But no, what I'm trying to tell you about was the protest held that month."

Abigail held on a blank face trying to remember exactly what her late friend, reincarnated, was referring to. After a few seconds, the figurative light bulb lit above her up.

"Oh yeah, now I remember! That was insane! Didn't it like escalate into a full-scale riot involving college kids?" Abigail recalled excitedly.

"That exact one, if I remember, weren't you drunk that evening?" Scotti asked, as if she were still alive and having a casual conversation with one of her best friends.

"Maybe, maybe that's why I don't remember it too well." Abigail noted with a light giggle.

"Perhaps, anyways. The reason I bring it up is 'cause several people were killed that day. It was an unsanctioned anti-government rally, hence the words Anti. And Government. Ya dig?" Scotti asked.

"Yeah, I dig." Abigail replied compassionately.

"Yeah, I'm surprised you didn't remember these kids. Miguel, Adam, and Peyton were killed in the commotion by police officers. And I think they actually strung Mare up a lamppost." The girl solemnly explained. "Fucking pigs." Scotti remarked bitterly.

"Oh. Shit…"

"Yeah, well. Take it from me, at least they're in a better place, reckon that goes for all of us." She explained.

"Yeah. I suppose so..." Abigail trailed off, wondering if what she thought she knew about death was even remotely accurate.

Suddenly though, a solemn rictus came across Scotti's face as she set aside her half-finished bowl of ice cream. "Honestly Abby, I think you're here for more than you think." Scotti paused once more with a comprehensive expression on her face, seemingly deciding how to phrase her next statement. "Abby...do you think it's better to live knowing what...what you've done in the game was the only way out, or is it better to have died and save yourself the tragedy of it all?"

Abigail for one thing was quite flabbergasted to be blasted with that question; the cheerful, jejune noise of the other teens seemed to be muted as Abigail cogitated the question with as much critical thinking as she was capable of.

"I-I don't know...what is that supposed to mean!?" Abigail gawked.

"It is what you make of it, Abigail." Scotti gravely responded, averting her gaze for a few succinct moments. Afterwards though, Scotti's expression became semi-glad though as a slight smile crossed her lips, "In all truth Abby, as much as I like seeing you, you're not supposed to be here in a long while and I'm afraid our time is coming to an end. Though, there's going to be a fucking ton of kids here soon. Best hope you 'aint one of them." Scotti doted with a light-hearted, yet still all-together grim smile.

"Oh…Okay…" Abigail trailed off, unsure of what to make of this. Her agape visage having transformed into a perplexed one (with a trace of fear mixed in).

All of a sudden Abigail heart a faint _thump _in the background and some pressure in her chest, the first real pain she felt since coming out to the quad.

"Well, you're about to wake up girl. So best of luck to you…and I may, or may not see you again, maybe Shira and Spike as well." She said. "If you see either, give them my best regards. Please." She requested with genuine empathy and warmth.

Abigail didn't respond for a second, she felt her heartstrings being tugged on and almost wanted to sob, but ultimately she answered, "Yes."

"Okay, thank you."

The faint thumping could be heard. Increasing in both frequency and volume, as it continued to gently pulsate, Abigail took that as a sign something was about to happen. And she was right.

"Well, that's your heartbeat, Abby. Your coming back to life some how…the big guy up there must have some plans for you, or something." Scotti continued.

"Well, it's time now. I'll see you later Abby, and likely I'll see the rest as well. I kind of hope to see Rain up here, but hey. That's awful selfish of me." Scotti admitted with chortling levity.

Abigail began to see this world fade away, into oblivion. The last image she could conceive was that of Scotti Lou cheerily waving auf wiedersehen with a blissful smile on her face, the game of tag football continuing in the background. Almost like a heavenly saccharine.

"Don't become another Julia, Abby..."

Abigail's consciousness was fluttering, to the point where she could only hear a faint feminine voice softly tell her that grim sentiment. What did that mean? Who the hell is Julia? As the quad and bright blue sky got dimmer and dimmer, she found herself already forgetting the words already and any sort of feelings that came with it...

She was trying not to forget this time and place. Trying not to forget Scotti and the others. She tried not to forget the happiness and the world without pain. Tried not to forget the promise she made to Scotti's personified spirit.

As she closed her eyes and the world swirled over to complete black, she forgot.

* * *

As her previous fibrillated heart began to beat anew, Abigail's previously shut eyes shot open.

The first sensations that were registered was first immense pain, cold sweat, and nausea, not in any particular order either. Her eyesight seemed blurry and unfocused, overall she was wondering if her body's functions were failing her.

As she roused and stirred in the storage facility for a good, solid ten minutes, she finally felt not as incapacitated enough to try and stand up.

Rising to her feet, she climbed up and used the nearby workbench. Her hands got marred with oil and grease leftover from decades of construction and work on the thing, but she didn't care. As her vision's clarity began fleeting back to her, she looked around at the shelves and cartons and bins full of scraps, scrap metal, and other parts, a plethora of junk taken straight out of the workshop of Jimmy Neutron's shed. She began to rub her head to try to make sense of it all, the acrid odor of must, oil, and dust pervading the air staunchly.

She herself was smothered in dust and spats of grease, her normally neat and cropped red hair was now disheveled and dirtied. Her clothes were the same story.

After a few moments, it all began rushing back to her brain again, the military base, entering the shed. Horrible pain, then nothing.

Looking down at where she was lying unconscious earlier, she noticed her duffel bag was still there, but her machine gun wasn't. She cursed profusely under her breath. She wanted to throw a tantrum, but was too delicate and hurt to do so, for risk of damaging herself further.

Whoever the cocksmear was that attacked her must have taken it, she was very much pissed, but the silver lining was that at least she was still alive, that was very lucky. Hell, even after being electrocuted and completely incapacitated, not only did whoever that took her Mac-10 leave her alive, _and _with the rest of her belongings, but no other opportunistic asshole decided to swoop around and finish her off. A damn blessing, she figured.

But still, she was in great pain, and without a weapon. So she couldn't really celebrate just yet.

_I-I swear to god, If I find whoever did this to me, I'm killing them with my bare fucking hands, wring their goddamn neck and gouge out their eyes!_

She began to think and build up more and more rage on losing her machine gun, one of the deadliest weapons in the game. All to some asshole with an affinity for electricity! He or she had taken her only hope for survival within the game, that right there was tantamount to murder!

She was starting to see red, her face was brought to a livid grimace as she clenched her teeth and seethed with boiling anger, a fissure in the back of her skull threatening to tear open. The pain she was in seemed to only fuel her angry conflagration, even more so that she didn't have the physical rigor to vent out any of her 101 frustrations on any of this useless shit. It all had to be contained, despite all her rage, she felt like a rat in a cage.

"Ah'm gonna kill 'em! Slowly and horribly, I know it isn't right to bear such ill-will, but God as my witness they're gonna fucking die!" Abigail seethed with her southern accent blaring on full steam. Unaware that she was talking to herself and the hate was somewhat hampering her rationale. "I'm gonna-I'm gonna-wait…oh God…" she trailed off as her stomach began to disagree with her.

Before she could formulate another sentence, all that she had been through in the past nine hours had finally caught up to her, her urge to purge was so great, and so unexpectedly spontaneous; That she was practically forced by her body to upchuck.

Doubling over, she explosively emptied all of her stomach contents all over the floor, further dirtying it.

Sputtering on the bile and trying to regain her bearings, she felt the exhaustion and sickliness began to conquer her body once more.

Within moments, the world around her began to spin in delirium and as her eyes fluttered shut yet again, one thought formulated in her brain before going blank. _God, damn it…not again…_

And with that she passed out on the unsanitary floor for the second time that morning, just inches away from her regurgitation.


	17. Hour 9: 45 Contestants Remaining

Shrinking Violet was not a term Flora Sharpe a.k.a. Girl#11 was all that familiar with, yet she still experienced the concept better then almost anyone else at Cold Rivers High. She was popular and drop-dead gorgeous, but nevertheless she was a shining example of the trope and it's attributes. Painfully shy and quiet? Check. Female? Check. Proclivity towards blushing and stammering? Check. Propensity towards always apologizing? Double check! Heck, if you were to look up the trope, you'd likely find a picture of her face next to it.

So in short, Flora fit that meme to the T. She would remember back in elementary and middle school how she would often roam the school hallways with her nose dug into her books, trying her best to blend in with the scenery and not be noticed by people, especially not Lily and her crew, or any of the jocks like David Langston, Chris Trent, or Gillian Davis. They would relentlessly chastise Flora for her introverted, taciturn nature and demure appearance. With braces, a childish body, and a tenant in academics versus sociality. She was hardly a butterfly in the realm of popularity…but she loved butterflies.

Back then, and even to this day. She often times could derive comfort from mother nature and it's children over her fellow humans, she could in all respects be considered a "hippy" or "tree-hugger", she would've been fine with either.

All of these factors considered, she was rather easy to make fun of and lambast, being of the complacent and insecure type she usually didn't put up a fight when being bullied, normally her only friend Rain would come to her aid when being picked on, but she wasn't there all the time… So her father opted her to take martial arts…Flora being the pacifist she was vehemently (not in stature, but ideologically) opposed to the notion of violence… until she was beaten for defending Judith Henriksen from the harassment and borderline molestation at the hands of a group of drunken and libidinous jocks.

So thus, her father had had enough when Flora came home with scrapes, scratches, and bruises all over her not yet matured body and pretty (in a bookish way) face. Vincent Sharpe signed Flora up for confidence boosting seminars (spoken by Ian Willard), and self-defense classes posthaste. And astonishingly, they both turned out to be very fruitful…on different levels, and lopsided regards. One of them worked _too_ _well_.

In Karate school, she excelled greatly due to her genetically lean body and the pent-up energy and unbridled rage built up behind that sweet and innocent exterior, almost like silk hiding steel. Within two years she got a black belt, and was officially adroit at Karate, certainly enough to defend and even kick the butt of anyone she saw fit (not that she ever did…at least for the overwhelming majority of her life). She still never applied her martial art skills in nearly every happenstance due to her totality pacifism. However, that was subverted when she was attending her assertion seminars.

The speaker was a very built, sturdy man by the name of Ian Willard, who happened to be Mathias Willard's father (coincidentally one of the other unfortunate teens also forced into this game with her). Ian turned out to be a hulking, boisterous man who advised his audience to be aggressive and pushy, and lures them in with his showboating and a 100% satisfaction, money-back guarantee. He was a self-help guru that seemed to loom aggressively over whoever he was speaking to. He possessed massively built, rippling muscles that nearly burst through the seams of the suit he was wearing. Now Flora had read Great Gatsby Junior year and always had a hard time conceiving the character of Tom Buchanan in spite of the descriptions, not a hard time imagining a person like that. Visualizing them was easy, but the prospect of encountering someone like that was completely foreign to her. But if she had to make a shot in the dark, Ian seemed to be a perfect comparison.

He had a habit of referring to himself in the third person and using various, often rhyming, catchphrases, such as "When somebody tries to block, show them that you rock!" And gesticulated like Mr. T; he was like a Caucasian Laurence Tureaud.

His advice was as meat-headed and supercilious as the mantra indicates, his philosophy essentially revolved around the idea that you shouldn't care for no one, and in all truth be a bully! Though he did demonstrate the effectiveness of his techniques with the meekest person in the audience as a "volunteer" — and of course, that had to be Flora, sad isn't it? True to his word, Ian Willard quickly got Flora to stand up for herself against his assistants, and she was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt to be assertive.

Now while Flora was revolted to the idea now, back then she was naïve and gullible enough to really buy anything. So equipped with her thuggish, misguided knowledge on how to become assertive, compounded with her aptitude at Karate, and with the additional benefit of her body winding up on the better end of puberty. She grew a round, plump rear, F cup breasts, and with a slender and sanguine looking face that had been refined through a modicum of facial cosmetics provided by her father; by the time Flora Sharpe entered high school, she was a full blown knockout, both in looks and punching power.

At the advocation of her friends Violet Belle and Abigail Macintosh, they insisted she tried wearing yoga pants if she wanted both comfort, and an article of clothing that would give her "better" attention. Ultimately it was just to contour to her voluptuous legs and bottom, still at the urging of her friends, she went along with it.

With this trifecta of attributes, she quickly rose to the status of both Queen Bee, and a bully. First she beat up some of her old tormentors, such as David, Chris and Gillian. Then verbally retaliated against anyone who made her life more difficult. Her assertive training was really paying off; she was at the top of the social hierarchy…and only as a freshman! Who would've thought? She was in Lily's crew (partially because they were somewhat afraid of her, and also knew they could use Flora for a lot of things) and was basically at the tippity top of the social ladder. In all truth, being ostracized and pushed around all of her life, it felt really gratifying to give some payback.

Even though things from a superficial standpoint were going peachy keen, she couldn't help but feel like things were still wrong. A lot of kids would give her looks of terror and back away from her, pressing themselves against the lockers and walls to put space between them…even her animals back home seemed to look at her disapprovingly, accusing her of misdemeanor. Something wasn't right with this.

She trampled on her old friends, made at least one kid a week cry, and overall she couldn't shake this intrinsic feeling that something felt very unscrupulous about it. In summary, it could be said in teenage vernacular that she had become an asshole, PMS'y uber-bitch.

Finally Diane Pye and Violet Belle had enough with what she had become and confronted her by the dilapidated basketball courts near the parking lot after school just in time for them to witness Flora picking on Joel Hellmuth after he accidently stepped on her foot and didn't apologize immediately after. It had rained earlier in the day, as spring days in Washington state often do; leaving an agglomeration of puddles of differing depth, shape, and circumference all around the concrete hodge-podge. Though they tried telling her that this wasn't her and that Mr. Willard's advice wasn't to be taken so literally. They argued profusely, and Flora continued to lambast her friends until finally she cut both of them down with conniptions that cut through the two's ego's like razors. She could remember exactly how the encounter proceeded.

"Flora! What are you doing? That's no way to behave!" Violet scolded in her typical "Holier than Thou" tone.

"Didn't you see what he did to new Flora? He thought new Flora was a pushover!" She grunted and punctuated with a harsh slap across Joel's face, causing him to lightly yelp and clasp a hand to his cheek. Flora was provoked and grabbed him by the tethers of his shirt and pulled him in close.

"No sweetie he didn't, we saw the whole thing! We think you've taken your assertive training a little too far." Violet reasoned.

Flora craned her head away from Joel and glared daggers at Violet.

"What? You just want new Flora to be a doormat like old Flora. Old Flora is _gone_!" She ranted, punctuating 'gone' with a shout. In her outburst, she momentarily loosened her stranglehold on Joel, which gave him the opportunity to shove Flora away and make a run for it. For which Flora cursed after him, but didn't give pursuit. _For being so short, the twerp sure could sprint._

"New Flora? Old Flora?" Diane questioned, thoroughly confused with why her friend was using referring to herself as two separate entities.

"What happened to nice Flora? We want that one back." Violet stated.

"No! You want wimpy Flora! You want pushover Flora! You want 'Do anything to her and she wont complain Flora!" Flora began to shriek, her once immaculate and do-no-wrong face now an agitated, biting grimace.

"TOO MANY FLORAS TO KEEP TRACK OF! MAKE IT STOP!" Diane cried out while clenching her temples.

"Things getting to complicated for your puny little brain, Pinkie?" Flora sneered with bitter contempt, Flora placed her palm on Diane's forehead and pushed back forcefully.

The desired effect happened as Diane staggered back from the shove. But Violet caught her. "Now stop right there! No more petty insults!"

Flora merely stood over them, smiling malevolently with her arms crossed; almost daring them to make a move. When they didn't she fired back.

"What? I thought you were all about petty! With your petty concerns about fashion!" Flora mocked viciously. Violet gasped and looked back, tears starting to form in her tattered eyes.

"Hey leave her alone! Fashion is her passion!" Diane defended with a considerable amount of conviction. She tried standing over Flora, but soon Flora leaned over menacingly, causing her to gulp and partially retreat.

"Oh, and what are you passionate about? Birthday cakes? Party hats? I can't believe you both are trying to tell new Flora how to live her life when two of the most frivolous girls in Cold Rivers High are throwing their own lives away on pointless pursuits that nobody else gives a flying _fuck_ about!"

Once Flora finished her conniption, tears were welling in the eyes of both of the victims of her tirade, each different shades of blue. Sapphire blue for Violet, and cyan for Diane… it looked like the waterworks were about to come, as the saline water began to cultivate by their eyes, they choked out respectively.

"L-looks like nasty Flora's here to stay!" said Diane.

"I can't believe what that monster's done to you!" said Violet.

Those where the last words they spoke to Flora before running away, their wild blubbering echoing about the otherwise mute outdoor courts.

"He's not a monster. HE'S A MENTOR!" Flora shouted after the two. It would be a moot point; the girls were already almost out of sight anyways. Sure she could've caught up to them and beat both of their ass's for making such a shrewd comment about Ian, but it wasn't worth the effort. They were expendable anyways.

As Flora grunted and breathed heavily, she felt livid, with a wild and feral scowl on her face that looked downright deadly, like a pissed off bull. She looked down at a shallow puddle of rainwater and could make out her won reflection, she could see herself growling at…herself.

Just then an epiphany struck her, a sudden realization dawned on her like a sledgehammer. Perhaps she had taken this assertiveness thing _too _far. Just seeing how vicious, barbaric, and filled with vitriol she looked as a complete 180 from how she was just a month ago, it was eye opening.

She recalled tearing up and sadly muttering, "I'm, the monster…" Flora lamented.

She sullenly trotted home, a both metaphorical and literal dark cloud looming overhead, she was depressed, and almost as if to tribute, mother nature decided to let the rain begin pouring down again. How timely…

* * *

So how was that whole narrative relevant? Simple, as the ninth hour of the game was coming to a close, as well as spending the past two hours secluded with one Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5, she found herself easily opening up to him despite the fact she hardly knew him a few days ago.

She couldn't really place why she was so complacent and willing to confide so much personal information into him. Maybe it was the stress of the game taking it's toll and she was just going insane, maybe it's due to repent emotional anxiety that's been repressed for so long and yearning for release, or perhaps it was due to this invisible, yet figuratively palpable aura surrounding Jerry, one that she had never seen before. Prior to the game, he seemed to be little more then a theater tech and something of a class clown. But now that they had conversed in depth, it seemed like something that was missing before was now emerging. _Or maybe it was there this whole time, and you were just too shallow to notice it… stupid, stupid!_

Now it seemed like there was some sort of silent confidence, not from his end, but an intangible and pervasive ambiance that gave the other the comfort needed to disclose with him. Jerry throughout the entire hours long consultation never once interrupted, was soft-spoken throughout, and always showed casual signs of his attention. With his sympathetic eyes, glowing face, and calm and understanding demeanor, Flora could unabashedly confess to spilling things out she didn't think she ever would to even some of her closest friends (Such as April Macintosh or Diane Pye). He displayed courtesy and kindness in spades that Flora didn't even know people had under circumstances like these. Honestly, now she was the one who felt like blushing.

Backtracking to her psychology notes from Mr. Miyamoto's psychology class, she explicitly remembered Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. It cites that human beings are motivated by unsatisfied needs, and that once certain lower needs are satisfied, the need directly above it becomes priority. Mind you, it, like any other psychological theory is not the end all, be all of existence, but in the most rudimentary of situations it can be a definite constant. Provided it is only a theory, and as all theories tend to come with, there were counter arguments. All the same though, Maslow believed that people were basically trustworthy, self-protective and governing, and that overall they tended towards growth and love, resorting to violence and hate only when their needs are not met; a real "tabula rasa" (as John Locke would say) with a propensity for selflessness.

He diagrammed it in a sort of five level pyramid, with the most basic needs on the lowest level and the most complex at the highest. At the bottom, there are physiological needs, such as food, drink and sleep. Once those are satisfied, humans tend to go for the second level of the pyramid: safety. Finding acceptance in a peer group, a stable and safe family life, and maybe a little bit of real safety thrown in for good measure. With safety and physiological needs met, the person seeks out the next level of their needs. Love...

Could Jerry fill that role? Maybe this wasn't exactly the epitomized version of undying, consummate infatuation that Flora liked to think she had experienced with Hank for almost her entire adolescent life. But Flora was nowhere near perfect, from a moral crusaders perspective especially. She had to fall in love with a boy, get with him, marry and have that stereotypical, banal romantic comedy type ending according to them. Not that there was anything overtly wrong with that, heck, Flora herself had to admit that was quite idyllic, if infeasible. She never vocalized how easily she fell for guys, sure she had liked Hank for years upon years now, but… it wouldn't be that hard for a guy to win her affection if they knew which buttons to push. And it seemed like Jerry was doing it with compassion alone. Her feelings were incredibly fickle, not only as a whole, but especially in the department of attraction towards those of the opposite gender. Those horny hormones were making her biological body clock tick double time after all. _Here I am in the Battle Royale, with my mind clearly elsewhere… I wonder who else has died since the last announcement…Twi, Rain? AJ, Hank?_

Even with the hell surrounding her, in this mini-cathedral with Jerry, it was actually harmonious; a luxury seldom could be found in a situation like this. They were both sitting quite comfortably on the pew closest to the altar, quite intimately next to each other, each a cup of green tea in hand.

All of these thoughts came through in the duration of about 15 seconds.

"Well that's a very intriguing story, Flora." Jerry complimented, "I never knew that someone like you would have so much depth." He said before gawked and immediately amended with, "U-umm, not that I uh; thought you were shallow, it's just. Umm, your just so amazing, I'm sorry." Jerry sputtered excitedly.

Flora looked at him with surprise, and then blushed lightly. "Oh, umm, thank you. You didn't have to apologize, but thanks anyways."

In turn, his face heightened a shade of tepid pink, as he turned his head away and looked down. His gaze averted.

She added, "In all truth I sort of, kind of felt the same way about you. So I guess I umm, should apologize as well."

Jerry looked back at Flora lovingly, with his hands folded behind his back, he asked,

"So, umm, how did that whole thing end?" he asked as he reached into Flora's duffel bag that sat splayed open between them and unwrapped an MRE; an MRE that looked and tasted like condensed cardboard. _Cheap government bastards, all the money at their disposal and the best food they could provide was this crap? Pitiful, utterly pitiful._

"Oh, umm, I isolated myself from my friends and didn't go to school for a while…I even contemplated suicide and cut my wrists once or twice." Flora verified this by lifting up her arm, and pulling down the long sleeve of her butter-colored cashmere sweater, revealing several subtle and faded horizontal marks left across under her arm. Some have certainly aged better then others. Jerry looked at them with concerned eyes.

"Umm, you said only once or twice, are the others…recent?"

"Oh, umm, no. They're all from a long time ago." Flora lied, partially at least.

"Well, that's good, right? I mean, at least you've stopped." Jerry consulted.

"Yeah, I guess that's a silver lining to that cloud." She agreed.

She continued her story, "I'm sorry to be long-winded, but, anyways…Surprisingly though, Diane, Rain, and Violet all came to my house as an intervention. They eventually managed to convince me to come out. A concise way to say it is…well, simply put. _All I needed was a little help from my friends_." She hummed. The familiar and preferred Beatles tune playing in her mind.

"Oh…well at least it seemed to end well, how's that for something." Jerry commented. He then took a nibble from the MRE and choked it down with some effort; one thing came to mind as he downed the colorless and banal MRE… cardboard. It seemed as if freeze-dried bread, meat, cheese, and even fruits and veggies all tasted like cardboard when all moisture had been removed indefinitely.

"Yeah, I'd say, I mean, not trying to sound arrogant…but I'd say I have changed for the better since that day, I did get suspended for a week for misconduct, but hey…I deserved it. Though I think some kids still have a grudge against me since that day, and even amongst my real friends it took quite some time to gain back their affection." She said with a hint of melancholy.

"Since then I've tried to never use physical violence against anyone. I'm going to try to abide by that principle as much as I can out here." Flora concluded. "I suppose that's the ending of that story, say…I'm sorry for talking for such an awfully long time." Flora unsurprisingly apologized. Though this wasn't the only story she told to Jerry, she also recounted of times she spent with friends (Violet, Rain, and Hank were several names that popped up frequently), what became of her parents, and eventually her and her uncle (though she did omit a few details for safe measure in addition to fudging a select few ones that she did include, _sorry Jerry._). And many other accounts and tales and occurrences in the (soon to be over) life of Flora Sharpe.

She also explained the highlights of her time involved in the game; being ambushed and nearly killed by Abigail Macintosh upon exiting the bunker (the bullet holes in her cashmere sweater and the bulletproof vest underneath was all the proof Jerry needed), hiding in some shrubs as she watched Alexander Golden rush by carrying a shotgun with wild and excited eyes, and just prior to becoming the doter of the cathedral, Shira Sweet-Belle tearfully sputtering about her sister. There was little Flora could do to help her.

"Oh, it's perfectly alright, it's been amazing to learn so much about you Flora, in all truth. This will probably be the highlight of the Battle Royale for me, considering I'll be dead in less then three days. You're actually the most wonderful girl I've ever talked to." Jerry excitedly spoke just before sipping from his teacup, making loud whistling gulp sounds as he did so. He had given up on stomaching the tasteless and horrible MRE and resorted to draining the blandness out with a hot herbal drink instead.

Flora lightly bit her lip and stared at the floor.

"I never would have known all of the balmy shit that has happened to you, almost something out of a sitcom, uhh, no offense." Jerry said sheepishly with his skin a little bit rosier then usual.

"None taken." Flora responded in kind. Feeling insightful yet also self-loathing, Flora posed a simple, yet thought-provoking question.

"Say, Jerry. Do you think that…we're all here, for a reason?" Flora asked, getting Jerry to open his mouth in response, but he was cut off with,

"I mean, not like just a random lottery. But, umm, like…fate has aligned all of us in here, divine allocation, or something of celestial power?"

Jerry scratched his head and didn't say anything for a few seconds, until he decided on what to say.

"Well, I'm an atheist and all like I said earlier, yet I still believe you're right. Not due to gods or goddesses or what not. But, there is a greater authorative power that selected us. Wanna know what it is?" Jerry asked rhetorically.

Flora nodded yes with her front teeth clamped down on her bottom lip.

"Well, the answers simple; our government." Jerry answered curtly. Then immediately added, "and I don't mean because they created this game and what not. It's because they specifically chose the cast for this season, just like they do every year." He explained.

"Huh? But I thought it was just a random lottery?" Flora said.

"Well, up until the fourth season it was. That's just a myth that they've cooked up to make things seem more up to chance, you know? Apparently nowadays they cherry-pick the class, y'know? Like, they select who they think would provide the most entertainment in a situation like this." Jerry explained as if he were lecturing to an uninformed novice, which Flora sort of was.

"O-oh, really?"

"Yeah. I mean, look at who's in here; Walter and his posse. A rambunctious group of partyers and thugs, I'm sure they'll go around like the Wild Bunch and rack up a massive body count, we've got jocks like Hank, Toby and Isaac. Rich bitches like Lily and Pamela, cheerleaders, nerds and basket cases. I mean, for them. This ain't some sagacious decision, this is just marketing. They spend millions of dollars researching what grabs people's attention, what they'll react to the most and what will catch their eye. I mean, this is a process that has been tried and true down to the gnat's ass at this point. Hence why we've also got so many attractive girls in here." Jerry ranted with increasing volume and tenor in his voice.

"Oh, I didn't notice that… I'm sorry." Flora said, getting Jerry to sigh.

"Well, it's rather obvious why they would pick someone like you," Jerry spoke, being mindful of the simmer in his tone, "I mean, let's just look at the facts here. You're _extremely _attractive, have amazing…_assets_… you're popular, nice to the point where it's actually harmful to you. And if the stories you've told me earlier were true-which I'm not doubting aren't by the way—then you're also extensively trained in Karate and have that, stare of yours… I mean, the big wigs would have to be fucking retarded not to pick someone like you." Jerry hastily concluded his tirade with, forgetting about volume control in his speaking as he oft did.

Flora just stared at him with shocked doe eyes, "Oh, my." Was all she could manage to say. While she didn't really want to believe it, nor did she like having her ego inflated, but Jerry was probably right. The same criteria likely applied to her friends, as well as many of the other beautiful girls in this game. And even many of the gents. _Hank, Nathan, even if he isn't very nice. Spencer. Logan, Mathias I suppose._

"Yeah, I know it sucks… I mean, that's like being cursed with such awesomeness. I wish we were more insipid shits, that way we wouldn't have been selected for this fucking thing, blessed with suck am I _fucking_ right?" Jerry practically shouted.

"Y-yeah, I suppose." Flora said apprehensively. _Gosh, Jerry sure is frightening when he gets like that._

Jerry noticed her nervousness; she really seemed rattled by something. Was it him? He could get very loud and vivacious during his rants, it was just an innate tic about him, no different than why some people were just nicer than others. Maybe it was due to enjoying being in the spotlight as a theater geek, or perhaps he thought it made himself more attractive. Whatever the case, Jerry figured he really needed to learn to get it under control, if he ever got out of here that was.

He sighed again.

"Look. I'm sorry if I scared you, Flora. It's just, my blood pressure always seems to increase whenever I go on whiny diatribes like that. I'll try to tone it down in the future." Jerry spoke with a sense of guilt.

"Oh, umm, okay. It's okay, you don't have to apologize. I mean, if it's something you naturally do, or if you want to, go ahead." Flora said, trying to appease to the Vietnamese boy.

"Well thanks for saying so, but I could tell that it bothers you, and other kids in the past, so I think it's best to just chill out, right?"

"Umm, well, I mean if it's something that you do, then you shouldn't have to stop it for anyone. I mean, it's truly okay."

"Well…okay I suppose."

They then stopped talking for a while; Flora curiously looked down at her glass and realized it was empty; now she could break the awkwardness in the room.

"Oh, my… it seems like I am out of tea, I'm really sorry, but I'm gonna go get some more, if-if that's okay with you." Flora requested.

"Umm, oh, go ahead Flora. You don't need my permission to get something you want." Jerry stammered.

Flora rose from the wooden bench and walked down the center aisle like a bashful bride, Jerry once more ogling her magnificent derriere.

"Oh, um okay Jerry, I'll be back in a bit. Do you umm, need anything?" Flora asked kindly in her meek acoustic signature.

"Oh uh, no, I'm good." He said. "Thanks for asking though." He quickly added.

"Oh, okay, I'll be right back then." Flora responded, just before quickly strolling into the church's back office.

As Jerry was left alone to his devices, he was too busy fantasizing about Flora's body- as horny teenagers often do when left alone with a girl as hot as her—to notice the boy who had been waiting outside for the past two hours, stealthily creeping in through the front doors.

* * *

Mathias Willard, a.k.a. Boy#20 had been trying to keep his cool. It certainly was hard under these circumstances obviously, but nevertheless he had been trying his best.

He had come into the Battle Royale with every intent to survive the game, from which that he was able to figure that he had to kill. Had to participate in the game. It was hard to come to grips with that thought, murdering people who had done absolutely nothing wrong besides being drawn in the game as well, and being unlucky enough to cross his path. But it was Battle Royale, it was survival of the fittest, and unless he managed to do what he had to, he would end up a nameless victim to be carried out in a body bag. And that wasn't how Mathias wanted to go, no, because he was destined to be something greater than Boy #20 of the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. He had his entire future ahead of him, and nobody could take that from him.

Despite the odds against him, Mathias was still confident he could end up walking away from this game alive. There were very few people in this game who could stand their ground in a fight against him, and in all likelihood none who could withstand a fierce stab to the heart if he put all his muscle into it. It wouldn't be difficult to take somebody by surprise, shank them in one strike, and walk away with their weapon. Do this enough times and he would be on a much higher footing than he was right now. _Of course it's simple when you put it that way, there are gonna be other people out to kill you too. Not to mention they'll all have guns and shit, you think that knife's really gonna stand you much of a chance out here? That's just naïve._

His assigned weapon was a WASP Injection Knife according to the instruction manual that came with it, complete with a box of miniature CO2 cartridges with the knife; kinda like the ones that were required as an expanding gas to be used in certain airsoft guns, or even paintball markers.

Now, he had no idea why CO2 would be necessary for using a knife. But nevertheless, out of morbid curiosity he followed the informational leaflet and screwed in a cylinder of carbon dioxide into a hole drilled at the handle of the blade. There was a red button on the side of the hilt as well, curiosity told him to press it, but from what he understood from Tom and Jerry cartoons, it was never a good idea to press the red button, so he stifled the urge to do so.

He knew murder wouldn't be something he'd be looking forward to, having blood on his hands, having to take a life wouldn't be easy, not if you had a semblance of emotion in you. Besides, even if he was one of the more bloodthirsty sadists that were sure to be exploring the island resort, he hasn't even facilitated the opportunity to fight yet. Aside from the sporadic gunfire echoing throughout the ecosystem and the occasional sound of bawling and crying, he had yet to encounter a single other person….

Okay, that wasn't entirely true. He had encountered what seemed like a monster earlier, it was once a human most definitely, but now…what he resembled was arguably such.

Earlier on he had snuck up behind one person, a boy by the sounds of it, and considered stabbing him directly in the back of the neck. As he approached though, the creature turned around, revealing it to be a monster. Really it was Spencer Ryan, a.k.a. Boy # 10, mutilated from his attack from Pamela early on in the game. He was brutally pale and covered in a light sheen of sweat, and those were just the parts of his face that wasn't battered in and could actually be seen behind the blood and bruised skin. He spoke with a blood-filled mouth, missing a good deal of his tongue.

"Heeeeeeelllmeeeeeeee!" he wailed as only one who lost their tongue could wail.

Fearing the deformed humanoid as he saw it, Mathias had run off and tried to regroup his thoughts. He had considered giving his friend Alex a call, but then thought better of it. _He could take care of himself. Besides, that leech would likely be more of a liability then an asset._

It was a good thing he didn't either, while Mathias did suspect such a thing, the reality was if Alex had found Mathias, he likely would have shot him on sight with his Spas-12 shotgun. So, crisis averted.

Thankfully as he rambled about the island, he found Flora Sharpe doting at the front of the small-scaled church, requesting people to join her as the sixth hour of the Battle Royale came to a close. She must've wanted people to mourn those who couldn't survive past sunrise, what humility.

He knew Flora personally…technically.

She used to stop by his house, to see his father Ian, something about how she really liked his "counseling" and "assertiveness training". Now, Mathias being the immature and dirty-minded youth he was would often trying placing an empty glass around the door of his father's office to try and listen in to what they were _really _doing.

Well, there wasn't anything, just bad advice and ego inflation. Of course that would provide insight as to why Flora became such a bitch…but that's neither here nor there.

Astoundingly, there were six others who were stupid enough to ignore logical reasoning and go in there on blind faith. First was Shira (Girl #8) and Rodney (Boy #22), then Vicky (Girl #22) and Octavia (Girl #16), then finally Roger (Boy #2) then Jerry (Boy #5). He knew he couldn't go in there alone like that, so he planned on just waiting till some of them walked out and he could pick them off that way.

Octavia and Vicky left first, but not only would it have been tough to take out a duo like that, but Vicky had a shotgun. So that was a no go.

Then Roger left, but he was too fast, him being a baseball star and what not, he was gone before Mathias could even raise his weapon.

Then Shira, but she had a gun as well tucked into her belt. From the looks of it, a large chrome revolver who's surface glimmered in the morning sunlight; almost maliciously. So that dissuaded the skater from pouncing.

At this point he was starting to get seriously pissed, he was now determined to slaughter whoever was the next person to exit out the door. And it was Rodney.

He ran up and tried to stab him, but almost as if Rodney had a sixth sense, he turned around and swung his duffel bag in a wide arc which nailed Mathias right in the face, with an audible 'OOF', it sent him scrambling back trying to catch his footing. Before he could recover from the strike, Rodney was already gone. Mathias cursed under his breath with his face hurting for letting his mark escape so easily, but then he realized that there were two others inside. Flora and Jerry.

He had watched them from outside like a lion stalking a gazelle for the past two hours, they didn't seem to be armed or in attack mode, they were simply talking and drinking tea like acquainted samurai; except not deadly at all and just begging to be ambushed. But in spite of what his gut was telling him, he decided to bide his time and wait. For some reason his mind went back to a motto his father would tell him when it came to girls, how'd it go again? _Wait for the right time to strike, or just take a hike… something like that. Wow, how'd dad become a self-help guru with lines like that?_

Now Flora had gone into the back, leaving Jerry alone. Now he felt was his best chance to mobilize. It wasn't now or never, but with the sun already up he felt like he had lost the shrouds of darkness and cover was no longer viable. He decided now was the time to make his move, besides, he was getting tired of waiting.

So, with his bag hidden in the shrubbery just outside of the cathedral and knife in hand, he duck walked as clandestinely as he could into the church and prepared to make his first kill.

* * *

The attack was quick and merciless. He had snuck up from behind, making it easy. Too easy. Injector knife in hand, Jerry didn't even notice anything was up until the blade had already run across his throat. Mathias cupped his free hand around Jerry's mouth to suppress him as much as he could, he could actually feel Jerry's confused bumbling and hot breath going against his palm.

The boy was likely so surprised that he made little more then a shocked groan before the skin on the outside of his slit throat opened like a useless mouth and began to drool blood. His hands instantly were attracted to the mess, trying to cover it up and put himself together, but without much avail.

Jerry jerked and contorted about like a person with a slashed neck would. Mathias began to feel more of Jerry's lip muscles rubbing against his palm and even more panicked mumbling and muted cries for help, and as a direct result Mathias clamped down harder on the bleeding boy to try to keep him contained.

Finally, after what seemed like forever but was actually an astonishingly short ten seconds, Jerry's mouth stopped moving along with the rest of his body and Mathias let go of the boy; letting him slump motionlessly on his side against the wooden pew. Jerry continued to bleed in the sunlight that almost poetically shined down upon him as Mathias watched with grim fascination.

Jerry's teal T-shirt was now being magically painted a different color from the neck blood as his eyelids fluttered shut for what Mathias saw as the last time. _Holy Shit! It's all real. It's all real and it's all yo-_

"Jerry, are you alright?" a feminine voice called from the back room. _Flora._

Mathias blinked. He squinted his eyes in the hot sun and realized that perhaps he wasn't as discreet as he had hoped. It seemed like he wouldn't have time to think about Jerry's demise for too long. _Okay Willard, you've already killed, can you do it again? Here we go. Double or nothing._

He tried wiping off as much blood as he could off of the knife against the leg of his tattered skate jeans as he made a lopsided jog towards the backroom door. He did his best to contain the terror, triumph, and energy within him and managed to choke down a roar.

Just as Flora Sharpe opened the door to check on her companion, she was immediately greeted with the sight of a red-haired boy charging at her with a wild expression with manic eyes to boot. She didn't have time to put a name to the face, or comprehend what was happening before it already happened.

She was grappled in closely by the boy and immediately felt something cold pressed against her neck; it pricked the side of her throat just above the collar as a hand roughly clutched a large sum of her thick and gorgeous mane.

She gasped and moaned as the cold steel's contact was more and more brazen on her warm skin. A rough jerk of her hair made her yelp and look up at her assailant.

As she further examined his facial features, an identity idly floated around in a nagging part of her mind; well not so much a name, but a title nevertheless. _Ian's son…Matthew, is that it? _She thought in a daze.

Flora froze at the sharp jabbing at her neck; the dull stinging pain made Flora tense up as the cold chill of the steel seemed to echo down her spine.

His near feral and twitchy face seemed haunted and rigidly shocked. His dilated and crazed eyes staring deeply into Flora's terrified and innocent doe ones.

For some reason there seemed to be an invisible force holding Mathias back, he had the girl immobilized and could finish her off right now. But for some reason he just couldn't do it. _Come on man, just do it, like with that other boy, you know how and where, just end this…you're not doing it man._

He had the perfect opportunity, yet here he was, freezing up! He pressed his body closer to hers, he could feel her breath on his throat as her struggles were all but ceased. Of course this wasn't like with Jerry, he hardly even knew the boy aside from the fact they were in the same French class together with Abigail, Violet and Logan. He could only place his face with a name and little more then that. Flora on the other hand was a girl he knew and longed after since high school began. _So, this is it,_ he thought to himself as he tried to work up the nerve. _You gonna kill her. You gonna go and kill her in cold blood. You know, she's in Environmental Science with you. Man how fucked up is this? No, no, let's not, come on. You're killing her, that's it, you want to get out of here, you gotta kill them all. Come on..._

As Mathias continued to stare with troubled eyes, forcing back vomit. Flora slowly let her gaze drift to the scenery just behind the red-haired boy. She could see a body slouched in it's seat, a wine-red puddle encroaching his face and neck as some of the maroon liquid fluidly dripped down onto the church's similarly colored carpet, becoming untraceable within the fabric. Her mind instantly made the connection. And when she did, you could almost hear her mind cracking on the inside. _Jerry…_

Her eyes grew transfixed on the bloodied Asian boy. Entering a fugue-like trance, her eyes grew dull and listless as the outside world for a brief moments seemed melt away into oblivion._ Jerry…_

She began to cycle through the seven stages of grief, but unfortunately for Mathias, instead of first passing through denial and depression, she skipped straight ahead to anger. She felt some sadness at Jerry's demise, but ire boiled up like a teakettle, it was white hot and begging for a release. It burned from behind her eyes, actually causing some tears to well. It was in her bloodstream, and it was sheer, unabashed, unmitigated rage! In the back of her mind a pesky, nagging part of cognition told her violent thoughts weren't right, and she should proceed with caution. But another, much larger part of her mind promptly told it to stick it where the sun don't shine.

Why was it that everything she loved was always taken away from her? Did god himself ordain a vendetta on her? Her parents, her best friend, a guy she was starting to like…and while with the two former this guy didn't have anything to do with it, she needed to learn to fight back, time to take some fucking revenge.

Her sad face turned into snarling grimace. "You…" She began scornfully.

Mathias was snapped out of his blank daze and was brought into full focus. His knife was still pressed on the skin just covering her jugular, yet she didn't seem at all affected.

"HOW DARE YOU!" she shouted ferociously as she stared the boy dead in the face with eyes that could cut through steel. That caused Mathias to actually be taken aback; he didn't expect his target to suddenly act with such bestial tenacity.

He also didn't expect Flora to roughly grab him by the shoulders and deliver a savage knee to his groin. The attack went off as expected as Mathias's hand's instantly shot down to try and cradle his hurt nether regions and he howled in severe pain. As his hands shot down south, his knife dragged its way down as well, catching traction on Flora's neck and cutting her lightly; but she was so livid she didn't even notice. Normally Flora wouldn't condone such an underhanded and excruciating tactic, something about how a harsh strike to that part of the male anatomy was about as painful as giving birth sixty times at once. But for this fucker she was willing to make an exception.

"HOW. FUCKING. DARE YOU!" She screeched madly at the now terrified and wailing boy, each word punctuated with a harder and harder blow to his already bruised crotch. The impacts of Flora's powerful knee was so great, it made Mathias tear up in sheer agony. As he tried to nurse the pain from his testes, he tumbled to the ground as if he were electrocuted while cradling his injured nether regions.

At this point he didn't really care about his knife, everything just hurt too fucking much. It felt as though his testicles were being held over a hot stove burner, no, far worse then that. The pain was so intense it almost made him pass out. Almost.

Instead he continued to groan and howl some more. But unfortunately for him, Flora didn't let up. She got on top of him; saddling his waist with her knees by his sides, and roughly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook him like a rag doll while he was on the ground.

"You killed him! You killed him!" she wailed madly as she throttled his head back and forth, bashing the back of his skull repeatedly on the floor with a rhythmic thumping. She wailed on him like someone possessed as he tried shielding himself with his hands in defense.

Now that the roles of the two have effectively been reversed, many thoughts traveled through the mind of the hunter turned prey like a ping pong ball as Flora started bringing down her balled up hands down on his face. One was how could he have wound up in this situation. Another was how stupid both he, and this was. One that that stood out as something of a highlight was how he had opened up a shaken can of whoopass upon himself; never would he have imagined that the meek and beautiful Flora could be this scary and strong. The penultimate one was that he was quite certain he was going to die. But then came the most recent one…

The knife! He had a weapon after all, and he needed offensive, now! Why did he allow this to happen anyways when one stab to the heart would floor this loony toon instantly!

"How could you?! HUH?! HUH?!" She continued to shriek like some deranged lunatic. Mathias' ears were starting to ache from her incessant screams of madness.

He had given up on preventing Flora's strikes from hitting, his focus was now on his weapon. Blindly feeling for the blade as Flora continued to pummel him, he found it after a few agonizing seconds and immediately took it in hand. He blindly lashed outwards with the blade and managed to cut Flora's cheek, drawing some blood. The gash wasn't deep enough to show bone or anything too serious, but would likely leave a markly scar if she lived long enough for her skin to naturally form into scar tissue.

She gasped in immense pain and clasped her hands around the lesion. This allowed enough of a break from her assault for Mathias to weakly shove her off.

As she mulled over the wound and in the hurt. Mathias tried his best to put some distance between them so that he could recover from his crotch bruising. In extreme pain, but not willing to back down, Mathias did his best to rise up to his feet. He slowly got up, doing his best not to irritate his mashed testicles, he tried his best to shield them between his legs while hunched over.

As quickly as the anger possessed Flora, it temperamentally disappeared. For some reason she now felt really sorry and scared like how she always did after she lost her temper. A wave of guilt and terror washed over her as she began to tear up, shiver, and speak in a wavering, meek voice.

"O-Oh, m-my. I'm so-so-so sorry!" She practically yelled. "I swear I didn't mean to do that, it's just sometimes I'm just…eep! Please don't be mad!" She hollered in defense. She started to back away, apologizing profusely almost like she was _begging for her life._

Mathias looked away from the pleading girl and saw his own reflection a dusty old mirror near a broom closet, he could make out his split lip and the speckles of blood around his mouth, as well as several bruises on his face. One of which being a fairly wicked shiner. His good eye twitched in unbridled rage.

"Sorry? You're fucking sorry?!" he threateningly asked at roaring volume. "Have you seen what you've done to my face and my balls you fucking bitch!" Mathias roared, temporarily forgetting that the girl was still more than capable of beating him up a second time given his current condition.

Flora on her part just whimpered unintelligible words and sniffled.

"You seriously want to beg for your life after this? You're sure as hell way stupider then I thought you were, Flora." Mathias said with a disdainful frown on his face. In all truth, he himself was angry, perplexed, and still a little bit scared; he was just trying his best not to let it show.

"I know I-I'm sorry, I know I did something bad… I'm super sorry, and I don't want you to be mad at me!" she cried out mawkishly.

"Oh, you're _going _to be sorry alright!" He threatened as he pointed his knife menacingly at her. He stared into her eyes once more, the unadulterated lividity and scorching fire had been quenched and was now replaced with sadness and fear like a wounded animal.

This time there would be no hesitation, this girl had fucking kneed his balls! Multiple times! And fucked up his face, no mercy would be shown. Whatever indecision had been present in Mathias' thought process prior to this had gone straight out a proverbial window and barreled down a cliff straight into a wood chipper.

As he limped towards the girl, brandishing his knife, she could only quiver her lip and watch in both prostration and horror as Mathias made a lopsided and pained limp towards her.

She was behaving completely helpless and it seemed as if all of her fury was gone for good. It would be soon, very soon. He smiled almost. This would've been all too easy…

Had either possessed more acute awareness of the environment, they would've noticed as the cathedrals heavy doors was pushed open, yet again. Another contestant had heard the commotion and rather then running away from the danger, instinctively went towards it instead.

It was then that the boy made his move. He had been walking along cautiously in the forest since sunrise when he had heard the scream. A girl's brief and aborted scream. He ran at the sound, trying to do anything to find anyone with whom he could join up, since more than anything else he needed a friend. Even though he was deeply worried at the fact it was a scream, he also reserved a dim hope it was one of his sisters he would come across…even if they were in peril… and _even_ _if_ one of them had already killed…

Instead he found a crime that he perceived to be the worst of crimes that could be committed. He had seen abuse on women before, and it to him was a crime worse than murder. Every time his father had taken off his belt and beaten his mother mercilessly, the boy would cringe and prepare to strike, but he had never acted. Had he acted he'd have felt even worse wrath. They were all devout Christians, but that of course meant nothing in terms of dysfunctionality. That was a major factor as into why he and his sisters were sent to their grandma's in Cold Rivers from Missouri in the first place.

Alcoholics can't be saved, but their wives should be...

Seeing Mathias threatening the downed and defenseless Flora, he could see his mother's face. It was more than enough to push him over the edge and into action. He ran, much faster than Mathias and much more comfortable with his bulk. He sucker-punched Mathias as hard as he could in the back of his head, he fell to the floor without as much as a grunt before smashing his head into the side of the nearest wooden pew. Blood flowed freely from his scalp as he lay unconscious on the carpet.

The muscular boy quickly turned his attention to Flora, who laid on the ground and was sniffling and weeping like a newborn. She held up her hands to shield her eyes from the gleaming sun that poured in through the open door, she looked up to see who her savior was.

"Are you alright?" The blonde boy asked with concern in his voice. It sounded very familiar.

She half-expected it to be Rodney who eventually realized he didn't want to leave her alone with all of the psychopaths running around. But squinting her eyes further, she could make out the boy's gruff yet cropped orangish-blonde hair, his rippling muscles, and unmistakably distinct red lumberjacks shirt and tattered denim jeans.

"H-Hank?" she muttered with certain confusion.

"Eeyup." He replied with signature confirmation. He knelt down beside her, and looked into her face with bleary and sympathetic eyes. She noted some saline water were in the corners of his sockets, was he crying recently too?

"I-I'm alive?" she asked, hardly believing it herself.

"Yeah, you're alive." He answered with an awkward attempt at a smile. Flora still thought it looked handsome.

Even though she had nearly been murdered just a few seconds ago, she almost completely forgot about that upon the realization she was now with boy she loved.

* * *

Flora had been in love with this boy ever since the seventh grade. A week after the school year had begun, they had met by chance. He actually ended up saving her life.

Very early one morning – even before any of the students arrived – a pipe burst outside a drinking fountain on the second floor of their school. The plumbers got there early and fixed the problem before it got worse. While they did their job well enough, the janitor had neglected to completely mop up all the water on the linoleum, prone-to-accident floor surrounding the water fountain and didn't bother to put up a wet floor sign. This negligence would later prove to be near-catastrophic.

Three hours later when the students arrived at the school, after putting some of her books in her locker, one Miss Flora Sharpe had gone up the main staircase to find her homeroom on the second floor, 309, she recalled the number was. The top of the staircase happened to be right next to the site of leakage of potable, yet oh so slippery tap water. When she reached the top of the stairs, Flora's feet slipped on the wet linoleum flooring, causing them to come from underneath her and sent her toppling backwards into a potentially fatal collision with the staircase.

Within a matter of seconds, Flora's world had gone from normal, to topsy-turvy and tilted on end, and likely would've turned straight to black had someone not grabbed her before her head could impact against the steps. Auspiciously, they quickly got under her and deftly caught her in their arms as she fell. He struggled with her weight and size for a moment, but this was hardly a problem for he recovered easily enough and gently set Flora down on her feet. She almost felt as if she was in a time warp; everything had happened so quickly. First she was going up the stairs, then she slipped and the world seemed to turn upside down before she was saved and back on her feet again.

By the time she recovered from her shock, she was face to face with who had saved her. In her young and romanticized delusions of Disney tales, she almost expected it to be a knight in shining armor, or some caped crusader rippling with physical prowess and stalwart stance (and even handsome, chiseled facial features to boot) But no, it was just another student (though what he would later come to look like somewhat fed into her expectations of a typical hero). She had never met this boy before, as his physiognomy seemed entirely foreign to her. All the same, she told him "I-I'm sorry for being such a clutz, thanks for saving me."

He just smiled and told her "'Aint no problem. Ah couldn't just let you fall and smash your head in, now could I?" In a distinctively southern accent.

"No, I… guess not," Flora replied tentatively. There was a short period of silence between the two. Eventually, Flora looked away awkwardly and said "I guess I better get going. I need to get to homeroom."

"Yeah, me too," stated the other student, "I have to find the homeroom for someone named Kennedy."

"Really?" said Flora, turning back to him, "That's my homeroom teacher, too!"

"Well, 'Aint that a coinky-dink?" remarked the other student, "How 'bout we go there together?"

"Ummm… sure, that would be great," Flora responded with a light blush, "I'd recommend watching your step at the top of the staircase, though. It's a little slippery."

"Ah'll bet it is," said her classmate, "Ah figured that either the floor at the top is wet or you're just a little clumsy. Glad to see it's not the clumsy bit."

Flora chuckled and told him "I-I can be clumsy at times, I'm sorry, it's just...well."

The sandy blond boy responded in kind, "You don' need to explain yourself, we all make mistakes." He then chuckled softly before putting back on what seemed to be his signature countenance of jubilation and friendliness. "Jus' glad this one didn't turn out ugly."

They once more shared a half-hearted bout of light giggles before walking together up the staircase and on their way to find their homeroom in harmonious silence. Just before going in, Flora held out her hand to the boy and told him "By the way, my name is Flora. Flora Sharpe. What's your name?"

The boy immediately grinned a toothy smile before taking Flora's hand firmly, and shook it with alacrity, simply telling her "Hank. Hank Macintosh."

* * *

Ever since that day, her heart would skip a beat whenever she saw or heard any nigh or tail of him. While initially he was a wiry boy with crooked teeth and skin pale as a ghost, puberty granted him adorning grace as he pulled what she saw as a complete 180.

Once he was old enough to work on the farm, he quickly put on muscle, physical errands out in the sun blessed him with a perfectly textured tan, a hunky body that was perfectly apposite for football. He also gained chiseled facial features as a bonus in addition to the rippling physique that would make even some professional body-builders green with envy…and he was only eighteen years old!

So as he evolved into a handsome, courteous, and _very_ athletic young man. He quickly gained attention from the student body schoolwide, guys due to his natural affinity for the pigskin, and practical wisdom; and girls due to his warm personality, hunky body, and Adonis-like looks.

And Flora was far from any exception, as his charisma increased overtime, it felt as if Cupid would shoot her heart with yet another one of his magic arrows with every passing fortnight.

Unfortunately her near-crippling shyness prevented her from making any real move on him, he still acted very gentlemanly with regards to her and they were still close friends…but that was just it… Flora both thanked, and cursed her luck. On one hand she was glad she got to be with him at all, but on the other…goddamned friend zoned….

But now here he was…and he had saved her life again! Just like all those years ago.

Even as she felt her heart flutter, she could only ask one question.

"How do I look?"

Hank blinked, then answered, "You look great, aside from that cut on your face, did he," Hank then pointed to Mathias' unmoving form, "do that to you?"

She fumbled with her fingers, "Oh, umm, yes… but, umm… but what should we do with him…Is he still alive?" She asked with persistent apprehension.

"Ah dunno," Hank replied simply. He walked up to the boy, knelt down at his level, and slipped two of his fingers around his neck just above the collarbone. He pressed the tips of his fingers against the boy's flesh and waited for a pulse. An intrinsic thump assured Hank that he indeed did not kill the boy, merely knocked him out.

"Alright, the boy's still alive. But Ah think good ol' Mat's down for the count," Hank replied with something of a grin, though more than anything he was hoping that he was right, "We'll get outta here."

"We're not going to kill him?"

"No; He'll come around to that on his own," Hank continued. "But… just in case he poses a threat, I have an idea." He amended.

Flora looked at him quizzically. "Huh, what may that be?"

He winked almost seductively and looked to his bag on the ground that he dropped upon waltzing into the cathedral. He pulled out his randomly assigned weapon out of the pack.

Flora observed the object with puzzlement and curiosity.

Hank nodded to assure her that there was a method to his madness, she nodded back tentatively while fiddling with her fingers. With her being faithful to whatever Hank was about to do, Hank got to work.

After about fifteen minutes everything seemed set. He had used much of his randomly assigned weapon, a roll of duct tape, and made Mathias no longer a danger. He had first hog-tied his hands, then wrapping pretty much all of the skater with a layer of tape that made him look like some crazy sort of silver cocoon, he plastered the now immobilized and unconscious boy to a plain spot on the cathedrals wall by the organ that would sound during sermons. He resembled a hapless bug that had gotten trapped in an elaborate spiderweb and was then wrapped tightly in the spider's silk.

Hank had gotten the idea after thinking back to a prank he pulled on his cousin Bernie after he had gotten to too many mugs of cider and blacked out during the Macintosh's family reunion a year back.

He observed his masterpiece with a sense of accomplishment, as he always did after completing a daunting task with dividends of hard work.

Flora stood beside him, eyeing the bizarre ensnarement with a sense of both relief and morbid amusement at seeing her assailant and Jerry's killer in such a defenseless state. She wanted to muse more on his potential demise, but she admonished those urges and instead digressed to what was more important. Hank.

She threw her arms around him and hugged lightly and spoke,

"Don't leave me, please," she pleaded between sobs.

Thinking of his own loneliness in the past hours, he just responded, "can't and won't. You got me as much as Ah got you, believe me there Flora."

Flora smiled warmly at him as she felt her heart leap inside her chest. _Oh, oh my… I- I can't believe Hank…Hank is here! I feel like I can just. Die in his arms._

As a severe wave limerence swept across her thoughts, nearly annihilating all that is known as logical thought, the lascivious water was instantly vaporized when she finally remembered why she lost her shit earlier.

"Jerry!" She shouted, startling Hank.

"Huh? Who?" He asked confusedly as he looked around the room for anyone else.

"Jerry! He stuck around with me for hours, and then Mathias killed him! Holy shit! How could I have forgotten for so long!"

"Huh? What're you talking about…ah'm sorry, but ah don't see anyone else in here. Flora." Hank calmly explained.

"Hank, look, he's over…there…" She left her voice drift on as she saw the sight, she gawked in absolute shock and puzzlement as she stared fixatedly at the pew.

There was the gratuitous puddle of blood, same as before…but no body.

She noticed a trail of scarlet droplets that lead its way away from the pool. Then out of the door. But then, that must mean…

"Holy shit…" Flora muttered under her breath.

"Huh, What's goin' on Flora? Is there something that needs to be told?" Hank asked with worry. "Do you think, you need to lie down?"

Flora just stared listlessly with a thousand yard stare out into the sun-kissed door. She then announced jadedly,

"He…He's still alive…"


	18. Hour 10: 45 Contestants Remaining

The Greer Manor was the largest home on the island of Weber's seaside resort. Its former owner had been one Lucian Greer, a food industry tycoon with big retirement plans, who had unexpectedly suffered from a turbulent peritonitis infection that nearly killed him in his autumn years. Unable to continue his business, he went with the quintessential dream every rich senior envisioned of when their lives began to wind down like old clocks: buy land on an isolated island where nobody could bother you, move to said home and stay there until the reaper came. In what would later be labeled as a tragic suicide in mass-media to spare the deceased's reputation from becoming an humiliating sensationalist accident (though insinuated otherwise in the documentary on the ongoing case that had appeared on television several years prior to the competition). Mr. Greer only spent three weeks in his luxurious home before he was found dead in his bedroom, a rope around his neck, with his pants and undergarments around his ankles...in an apparent accidentally fatal case of auto-erotic asphyxiation. While the exact circumstances surrounding his death were never overtly revealed in the mass media, leaving a few conspiracists speculating as to what his true cause of death was; what was clear is that his opulent palace of a vacation home was now up for grabs for equally aristocratic patricians.

However, despite the attractive nature of the prodigiously affluent domicile; aside from occasional renting by rich tourists, the house lay forsaken for two decades (Not counting the workers and custodians who stayed around to clean up and prevent the manor from becoming a decrepit mass of hulking urban decay).

It sat there nestled on the highest peak of the northern mountain, glaring down at the entire island with the perfect view to watch and appreciate the various miracles of everyday nature, such as the sun rising, or harsh waves crashing into the stalwart rocks of the shining lagoon below. The architect who designed it had been a man Greer had commissioned from Italy. With four-stories, an Olympic swimming pool, an expansive milieu of grasslands fully elongated for posh sports such as shooting skeet, golfing, cricket, and polo among other things... and also beautifully furnished patio in the back, it was one of the biggest and most opulent beauties that Hillsborough had to offer. The crown jewel, if you will.

And now as of late, it served as the hideout of a trio of teenagers whose sight was so common, normally it would warrant little more than a passing glance. A few weeks ago they were all living their lives normal as normal could be in the supposed prime of their lives. But now, all three were now internationally recognized celebrities in the deadliest competition ever conceived, letting their lives wind down like old clocks...

* * *

The three young men were nestled in the manor's living room, each sitting on differing pieces of furniture, but all gathered around a large dining table situated near a grand fireplace that hadn't been lit in at least eight years. One of them had their muddy and caked sneakers crudely rested on the tabletop, dirtying the surface as crumbles of dirt fell on its surface. He also idly had a semi-automatic pistol cradled in his hands as he polished it, almost lovingly, with his thick fingers. This particular boy ran a hand through his curly shoulder-length, dark brown hair and clicked his tongue several times without really realizing it. He had been staring at his filthy shoes for quite some time with a pensive expression on his slightly burnt face. The singes were superficial flesh wounds, given a doctor's review, but it still hardly hampered his good looks.

Another boy sat across from the burned one, he stood up straight with his designated snub-nosed revolver placed in front of him. Eying the pistol with morbid fascination, he wouldn't nor couldn't consider using it on his two companions, that was far beyond his principles. No way was he going to play. This blonde, fair-faced boy was also deathly silent, he didn't look nearly as cool or collected as the other two Hispanic teens, but his mood was about as tense as the one mentioned earlier. He twitched his nose and leaned forward on the table, burying his handsome face into his arms.

The last boy was not fair looking unlike his peers. He also wasn't normally one to sit down at a rich man's former banquet and squabble with them, normally he would be with his gang stirring and raising hell and having fun. But since all of his gangster friends had abandoned him, he didn't really seem to have any other choice other then to join up with the two kids he was with now. He definitely still considered them his friends, maybe even close ones. But between selling oregano disguised as pot to unsuspecting freshmen, and tagging abandoned, derelict locales with elaborate and prismatic graffiti art; he didn't have much time to hang with these two. He absent-mindedly swung around his randomly assigned hedge clippers, he wasn't fortunate enough to have been given a gun unlike his two friends, but hey. Better then nothing, right?

As he rolled his head back into the chair, Carlos Menendez, a.k.a. Boy #6, looked around the room with judgmental critique. The retro wallpaper that hadn't been replaced in years was peeling in several spots and showed signs of moisture scrunching it up. The tacky brass chandelier above them had candles that could've been lit, they seemed to either be new, or simply antique's that had yet to be used. It would've been a moot point anyways, the morning sun loomed well over the horizon as bright light had flooded into the manor's gloomy and cold interior hours ago. It may has well have been dark anyways, Carlos always loved nighttime, the cold and peaceful moon, the stars, the mantle of darkness, it was always so surreal.

Back home he was a popular star soccer player, not like his reputation back at school would do him good out here, but when your hours were numbered so drastically, it felt best to cherish everything life had offered. Every opportunity, every talent, every _breath _felt like nothing he had ever experienced before. He almost liked the feeling. He idly scratched at the charred layers of skin that dotted some spots on his left cheek, he managed to take off some specks of dried to death skin, but other then that had little effect.

The blond, Luke Donahue a.k.a. Boy #1, coughed into his sweater sleeve, his friends looked at him as if he was expected to say something, but he didn't.

Looking away from Luke, Carlos observed his other friend Anthony Rojas a.k.a. Boy #19. If there was anyone that he was elated to see upon waking up in the classroom, it would've had to be him. Anthony may've been dumb as hell and had the face of an ape, but he was about as loyal as they came, almost like a pitbull. He was muscular and short with a nearly bald head that was conveniently hidden by a tattered red baseball cap that he usually liked to wear to the side. He was prone to fights and certainly looked far more worn out then any eighteen year-old deserved to look.

He had broken numerous bones within the past three years, and tattoos almost covered his body; particularly on his arms and chest. Barbed wire encircled his left arm, while his right showcased a half-naked woman in a sombrero standing next to the Angel of Death. His chest was a patchwork of playing cards, Mexican proverbs and a bullwhip encircling a half-opened straight razor. Some of them may have been cheesy, some of them may have been in poor taste, but nothing would have stopped him from getting any one of them.

Carlos's pretty-boy chest was completely free of ink, but that might've changed one day if not sentenced to death by homicide.

The tension and silence were palpable, until Anthony in his childish, yet still somehow comforting way spoke. "So, Carlos…what the fuck happened to your face?" He asked, subtlety not appearing at all within his voice.

Carlos chuckled internally, but outwardly sighed. He stopped rubbing his Walther P99 pistol at once and gently set it down. Then opened his mouth and said,

"I was out of the bunker and saw the class prez and that Vietnamese dude just outside with a machine gun, they were talking and I think they were planning on killing all of us as we exited, got me Holmes?" Carlos explained. Continuing his narrative, he want on to say, "So of course I intervened with my pistol and coerced them to get the fuck 'outta dodge. _And_ shit seemed to actually be coming together 'ese. But… some _pendejo mierda _shot out…I think some kinda fucking fireball, and then… I dunno what happened after that."

Anthony looked on and spoke, "Well, I suppose you did your job man. Mean, there were only four people to bite it past six hours. Personally if I's there, I'd a just taken my packed heat and blasted away!" He proclaimed.

He said these words loud and clear without any intention of backing down. His tattooed arms were folded into his chest – probably trying to mimic the pose of some archetypal rapper he'd seen on TV – but it was very obvious that behind his tough demeanor, he was terrified. They all were; it was just that nobody wanted to be the first one to say it.

"What do you mean by that?" Luke asked with tired eyes, looking up from his folded arms on the table.

"Ain't it obvious yo? I mean Carlos shoulda taken some initiative and kicked some ass! Mean, this'd made it easier for the rest of us, know what I'm sayin'?" Anthony spoke harshly. But he wasn't done there. "We should go outside, as an unstoppable tag-team, with both of your pea-shooters, we could go around and sweep this island like a plague, take the game like a damn storm! Blow this island effing sky high!" Anthony concluded excitedly.

Luke looked at him bewilderedly. Carlos on the other hand just raised an eyebrow and spoke disinterestedly, "Look man, go out there and get your head cut off in five minutes and try giving us a call."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "You guys are all talk and no action. Buncha pussies if you ask me. C'mon, man. You always said you wanted to kick ass. I always kind of thought this would be something you'd live for. All those stuck-up rich kids. Doncha wanna team em' a lesson? I know if Walter were here he'd take my side!"

"Well, Walter's an asshole man, sorry to say it, but it's completely true. Wouldn't trust that guy if he was the secret creator of social security. Hell, if he was fucking Malcolm X brought back I still wouldn't touch the guy with a ten-foot pole. So no way is he any source of moral fucking guidance." Carlos said in a harsh tone.

Anthony bit his lip and looked away guiltily for a second, before refuting, "Well, out here I think he has the right idea. I mean what the fuck are we going to do, wait around with our dicks between our thighs and let everyone on the island shove a rusty chainsaw up our asses? I say not!"

"Shut up Anthony, go out there and your ass is grass! We're not playing! It's fucked up, like putting a bunch of rats in a maze. Doesn't that make you feel a little low?" Luke said, feeling like that was the only thing that made sense.

Anthony's beady eyes began to show uncertainty, but he still continued desperately with his speech.

"Battle Royale's good", Anthony said angrily. "The TV said all this intellectual shit about how it's helping with population and stuff. All of these other countries are going to pass the law to have it soon too" He said, not quite picky with his words but letting them flow anyways.

"Yeah, that's great", Luke said with an eye roll. "If everyone was jumping off a bridge would you do it?"

"Depends how high the bridge is", Anthony said thoughtfully. "But I think we should go outside. Think about it guys. You've got a six-shooter, and Carlos got a fuckin' pistol for Christ's sake! We could rule this game! Dominate, y'know? The three of us could go out and wipe this place clean".

"I know this might seem kind of weird to you", Carlos said solemnly. "But I don't want to play, I don't want anything to do with this. So please do us a favor and shut up so we can all think straight."

"Why so serious, man?" Anthony said excitedly. "I thought you lived for this kind of shit too. Remember that fight you had with Andre Sullivan last Friday? You nailed that fucker right into the ground. Why don't you do it again?"

"It's not like I like fighting", Carlos said quietly. "I just do it cause I don't gotta choice. This is different".

"Really?" Anthony said, his eyes enlarging. "How is it different?"

There was a sudden silence in the luxurious dining hall of the Greer Manor. There was a sense of wisdom in the air – almost a sense of philosophy – and for just a minute, Luke considered things and wondered if there was a difference in matters at all. Dumbfounded, he picked his legs off the kitchen table.

"What are you talking about?" Carlos said finally. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, fights out here and back in school are the same, just now they actually count for something. I mean, if Walt-"

"Dude," Luke interrupted, "you're such a suck-up to Walter man-"

"Let me finish, _pendejo,_"Anthony snapped back, "_…_What I'm trying to say ese, is that this game won't progress by itself, and there have to be other motherfuckers going on about there playing. I've been thinking, now I've just been thinking…if we got out there and play, we could get rid of all other threats and escape. I'm just doing it in consideration to you guys…actually save that, leave Walter and Rodney, and Beryl if Walter wants, alive…"

"Jesus man! Do you know what your saying, just talking about killing like this! I mean, do you have any idea what can happen to you if you go out there?" Luke frantically spoke to his friend, trying to caution him of the inevitable should he leave the manor.

"Christ, Carlos, please talk some sense into him." Luke requested solemnly.

"Yeah Carlos, talk some sense into Luke. I've been wanting to get into the action for quite some time, I'm ready!" Anthony urged. "Come on, a rich white boy like that don't understand what us Latinos have been through, y'know, we're made of sterner stuff!" He boasted as he flexed his muscular bicep, the barbed wire illustrated on his beefy arm distorting into chainmail.

Luke rolled his eyes again.

"Don't worry. I know exactly how to survive out there. It'll be just like you survived in SoCal for all those years, Carlos". Anthony said confidently.

For a moment Carlos couldn't speak, he mulled over what has been said so far. Until after several tense seconds of silence, he gave what he thought was the best thing he could say.

"Do whatever you want, Tony", Carlos sighed. "I'm…I'm sorry".

"Are you kidding?" Luke screamed. "He'll die the moment he goes outside!"

However, it was too late. Not wasting a second, Anthony picked up his weapon from the polished wooden floor, a pair of hedge shearers, and dashed outside. Normally, Carlos would have at the very least urged him to take the pistol or revolver that Luke and him had gotten, but it was no use. Anthony had lost himself in blind trust and wild adrenaline – he was now an animal on the prowl. Grinning, Anthony turned back at Carlos one last time:

"You're awesome, man!"

And then, in an instant, Anthony had slid open the screen doors with a creek, hopped off the wooden porch, and vanished down the rickety steps that led down into the manor's backyard. The sound of him stomping echoed for what seemed like half a minute before it vanished into nothingness. For a second, Carlos thought he was going to cry. The moment quickly passed though and a silence even more deafening than before fell over the kitchen; a silence so bad that you could almost hear the ants nibbling away under the fridge. Then, astonished, Luke finally turned to him furiously and said:

"Do you know what you just did?"

Nodding bitterly, Carlos decided to answer.

"I'm not sure, Luke, but I think I just played the game. I might have helped Tony play it too…"

Shaking his head, Luke Donahue quietly got up and closed the screen door Anthony Rojas had vanished out of like it was a portal to another world. Then, not even speaking to Carlos, he sat down and read the instruction manual that came with his snub-nosed police revolver, anything other then facing Carlos like this.

Carlos sighed and leaned back further on his chair, looking up to the ceiling, fully unaware of what these next three days had in store for him.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Carlos, he and his friends were not the only legitimate players of the game that were gathered in the sector that made up the Greer Manor. Slightly off from the tennis court and several feet away from the gun racks that were now deprived of half of their namesake, there was a small shed. When the Greer's had purchased their estate, their decision on a use for the shed was pretty much treat it like it wasn't there. Filling it with expired medicine, the ancient pool filter, and anything they had no use for, it really didn't have a purpose other than to gather dust and become a sweaty breeding ground for bugs.

However, the Battle Royale had actually proven the shack useful, especially for Laurel Cruz a.k.a. Girl #14.

Laurel was scared. She wasn't the only one, she knew she wasn't the only one, yet still of them all she was perhaps scared the worst. Cowering in the corner of some random shed and weakling holding up the double-edged broadsword that barely fat in her pack with both hands, the girl did the best she could to avoid breaking down entirely. She rocked back and forth slowly, muttering to herself as many show tune lyrics as she could remember. Anything to get out of all this.

"_If I trust in you, would you let me down? Would you laugh at me, if I said I care for you? Could you feel the same way too? I wanna know..._"

_Mamma Mia, good stuff...this is truly what it all is...just the name of the game._

It wasn't the best of ways to manage with things, but it helped in the moment. It was a distraction, at least that was good. When she was on stage, that was when things were always at their best. That's when she felt most at home. Cute as a button though she may have been (if not a little chubby), the young Latina with the short curly hair had always found social situations to be intimidating. There were always a lot of people, and strangers, that was always bad. _Mama always said that you had to get rid of those shells, shed 'em, molt 'em, right?_

The theater had done some good there; she would always be thankful for that. It was as good a way as any to actually get out there and at least try to show the world that she wasn't just some wilting flower and could do something. And it was there she found a family. Back home, there had never been any semblance of family unless you counted the few moments out of everyday when mom was between drinks or the occasional weekend when dad would stop by. But in the theater, they were a family. That was where everyone supported each other, working on the next school play, laughing together, partying together. There were outsiders, sure (_Melissa can be quite the bitch, can't she? Wait, isn't she dead?_). But all in all they were a happy group.

But none of that was here. None of it was in the game. It should have made her happy that most everyone she cared about was not in the game (though there were some faces she recognized back in that insidious classroom), but it didn't. She knew it was selfish, but she wanted there to be someone she knew. The more people the better. The better the buffer between her and the monsters, the better her chances for survival. _You'll find someone, you always do. Someone is out there that'll take care of you, someone out there..._

She really needed someone, someone whom she could trust unconditionally, she really needed a hero. Every so often the sound of explosions and thunder going off in the distance would cause her to wrinkle up like a leaf, harrowing her mind and condition immensely. Though she realized things _could _be worse. _They could always be worse…_

The shed seemed solid though, that was nice. It's walls were not as nice as the walls created by the validation of her friends, being that they were caked in dust and rugged, splintered wood, but they would almost certainly hold. _Hold enough for what, is somebody going to tear this place down with a sledgehammer like Wrecking Crew? Blowing these houses down like the Big Bad Wolf? Come out, come out or I'll blow our house down? Shouting "Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin!" really won't help you know._

Brushing a tuft of curly hair that had predictably stuck itself to her forehead aside, taking away a light sheen of sweat that had accumulated on her brow, she could feel the urge to let loose a few more tears. But stifled it as best as she could. _N__o, no, no need to cry; you got a weapon, remember? You got a weapon in this fucking game, but do you think you can use it? Seriously, do you think you could get down and ugly and use it if you really wanted to? You're no samurai or knight or some ancient warrior that could pull this shit off. It'd be much better if a knight in shining armor could take me away on a trusty steed away from this hell... But, really, do you honestly think that you could-__  
_

There was a sound outside-an unnatural one by the sounds of it-and the girl immediately tensed up. With her sword held out with her trembling hands she hoped beyond all hopes that it would go away, be nothing and go away. _Oh god, please don't let it be someone and don't let them come in. I'm not ready to die yet, I'm too young, wait, I don't know, please help me, for the love of god someone please help me, please just let me get out of here and be good and be young and be me, what the hell am I doing here?_

Suddenly two knocks could be heard on the shed's front door, "Anybody home?" a sympathetic masculine voice spoke.

Hardly caring about how friendly it sounded, her safety zone had been breached and that's all that mattered. She shrieked out loud and scrambled to her feet, her sword still pointed out in front of her.

"W-Who's out there?" She panickedly cried out. A head looked through the window, but the harsh sunlight pouring through the window of the spacious shed clouded her vision and prevented her from seeing who the person was. The head soon disappeared, then an alarmed sounding male voice spoke,

"Listen, please don't kill me. I'm just looking for some shelter, is it alright if I come in, Laurel?"

Laurel shuddered at the prospect that this person already knew who she was, it was creepy as all hell and made her want to puke. But working up some nerve, she tried replying back.

"L-look," she stuttered, "Show me you mean no harm, go into the sunlight with your arms crossed!" she demanded, trying her best to sound tough. She knew that was an incredibly dumb request to make, why would this person comply with it? For all she knew he could burst in with a shotgun and blast a basketball-sized hole into her chest.

Against all odds however, the boy merely replied calmly with, "Okay, sounds fair."

The mysterious man lightly pushed open the door, Laurel braced herself for the worst and tightened her grip around the swords handle. As the door slowly opened, the morning sun's bright rays shined down on the boy, giving him the appearance of a Greek god as his shoulder-length blonde hair flowed gently in the cool breeze. The sunlight fully revealed the face of Toby Vrett a.k.a. Boy #12 to the now relieved girl. He had his hands raised above his head in surrender and peered at Laurel with concerned, yet sympathetic eyes.

"Laurel, are you all right?" his calm voice asked her. Had she not recognized him, odds are she would have attacked with her sword in a blind, feral panic and maimed or killed him right then and there. Thankfully for the voices owner, it was the one that Laurel wanted to hear the most.

"Toby!" she cried out, dashing with a spring in her step towards and hugging the parka-clad boy. She made sure to lower the sword and have it pointed away from his body. A great part of her was sick to see him in the game, but an even more selfish part of her was glad that he was here. He would make her feel better, he always did. He always knew just how to act at times like this. The boy hugged her back warmly, squeezing her with just enough pressure to calm her down. _Great, you screamed and had a breakdown in front of him, that'll really impress him._

"It's all right," he said calmly, "I'm here."

"I've been so scared!" she responded with a sob.

"Yeah, I can't really say this whole morning has been peaches and cream," the boy replied evenly.

"Yeah, I'd certainly say so…but it just got much better now that you're here." She complimented warmly.

He rubbed her hair, embracing her more closely, " Aww, thanks. Don't worry about it, we're together now. Come on, let's get out of here. I think there's a nifty general store that was pretty small but warm. And solid too. We could hide out there for a while if you would like to. I imagine it'd be much nicer then that dinghy shed."

Breaking the embrace, Laurel looked into her saviors piercing green eyes, "That sounds awesome. Could you lead the way?"

He broke the embrace and looked at her with a sentimental smile that would probably melt the heart of any straight girl; Laurel blushed immensely despite her naturally tan skin.

"It would be my pleasure my fair lady," he said with the tip of an imaginary hat, "so long as you keep a watch out. I was not graced with a weapon that would be of any use."

"Really?" she asked, trying to get focused on anything but the hell they were in.

"Yeah, I looked in my bag hoping for a form of defense, instead I was awarded a roll of toiler paper. They have quite the sense of humor, those Battle Royale people, don't they?" the boy said with a slight chuckle.

Despite the extreme misfortune that seemed to have been tragically conferred onto her crush, the levity was simply too great to entirely suppress some laughing, hence why Laurel couldn't help but begin laughing at the seams. Toby merely smiled warmly in response, not seeming to want to interrupt her moment of happiness, even if it technically was at his expense. _Awwww, Toby...God he's just so perfect._

With the slightest of smiles, Laurel couldn't help but feel comforted at his presence. He had always been her favorite, but then again he always seemed to know the most. While she was a thespian and he was an athlete, two entirely separate realms in the microcosm of high school extra-curriculars, they did travel in similar social circles. That allowed Laurel to interact with the boy with impunity, a fortuitous benediction if Laurel ever knew one. Toby Vrett had always been the best athlete in school in Laurel's eyes. His affinity being for basketball, with his inherently tall stature, himself being about a foot taller the Laurel, broad shoulders and a greatly toned physique, it seemed like him and basketball were a match made in heaven. She would ritualistically attend his games, customary as she was among the most fervent supporters in the audience whenever he made a free shot, especially when he carried his team in the victory against Brook Rivers high school earlier that year.

But he never seemed stuck up about it. Not once. He was handsome and talented, well-endowed, but never once used his skills to try and pick up on girls. If anything, he seemed to have a constant humility about what he did, saying he only played because he was good at it. True, he perhaps wasn't looking to make a career out of sports playing, or even being flagrantly passionate about it, but he was never sore about it, both in winners' and losers' circles. He would always have a sense of decorum and never boast or gripe about whether he won or lost, and that modesty was another turn-on for the young Latina. Though, he did seem to have a hard time recognizing how other people would have their own issues with the game, especially his own teammates.

Yet in the context of a Battle Royale, whatever minor negatives that could conceivably be noted as a flaw about the boy could be thrown out the window. Laurel knew what he was like at his core, she had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of his psyche and loved what she found, and that was all that mattered. He was kind, athletic, sagacious, and above all else charming. _Who knows, you might have a chance now that you're all going to die. Wait girl, that's morbid, funny though._

At that thought, she couldn't help but giggle softly.

"What's that one for?" Toby asked casually as he looked into her eyes.

"Oh, nothing," Laurel replied, "just thinking about the bathroom tissue. I'm sorry, I know this is really messed up and all, but that was really random."

"I know, they're really big into random in this game aren't they? Make sure everyone has an even chance and all, but I really don't know how you're supposed to have an even chance when you get a roll of toilet paper," Toby remarked jokingly.

"Seriously!" the girl exclaimed with mock humor.

They continued to trudge through the grasslands in silence for a few moments, passing by a set of forsaken crochet hammers and balls. Laurel was holding onto her sword rather laxly while Toby walked rather casually with his hands in his deep, baggy shorts pockets. They eventually stopped by they Olympic sized swimming pool, it's waters glimmering in the ten o'clock sun like crystalline, it's reflections constantly changing is the water continued to shift, falter, and undulate back and forth in perpetually haphazard manners.

He let out a chortle of his own staring at the water, the light making his eyes sparkle like diamonds.

"What was that one about?" Laurel asked.

"Oh, nothing. Was just thinking about taking a dip." Toby answered with some of his trademark charm.

"I don't know, under other circumstances yes…but…well, you know…" Laurel hesitantly spat out. She was actually craving it, she would've just died seeing Toby…without his shirt on… but in spite of how amazing a sight like that would've been, they were still all in a fight for their lives against one another. Toby was out to kill her as much as she was him, which was not at all at the moment. So it would seem illogical to go swimming at a time like this.

"Well, yeah, I understand, you're right anyways. Besides, chlorine's bad for your skin. And that's just The, Worst. Possible. Thing!" Toby mockingly remarked, seemingly not at all disgraced of making light of one of their fallen classmates mannerisms in life.

Laurel giggled despite it's rather mockery of the dead for a little bit before returning to silence. They continued to stand on the slippery wet concrete by the pool for several moments before commencing in speak.

"So what are we going to do?" Laurel asked finally, staring at the gleaming chlorinated water.

"How do you mean?" Toby asked calmly.

"I mean, what are we going to do after we get to shelter?" Laurel asked. Even with seeing Toby, the question remained on her mind. He made things feel better, if not actually _better_, but she did have a feeling that he would make it all right.

"Well, I had one idea..." Toby admitted with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Oh, what may that b-" She was interrupted by Toby suddenly tugging something out of his parka pocket, in what looked like a barber's tool but was actually a taser. He activated the device with a button-press as it came to life with an electrifying _KA-CHANK_.

He suddenly jabbed the taser into Laurel's side, causing a torrent of blue electricity to zap her as she yelped in pain, instantly dropping the sword from her grasp.

Temporarily stunned due to having her entire neurological makeup jolted, she couldn't help but twitch on the ground for a little bit as her mind became unsteady and confused.

She couldn't exactly comprehend just what was going on, just that she was hurting monumentally and seemed paralyzed. Thankfully after being kept in the invisible force barrier, she found herself capable of getting to her feet after a few seconds, though her side still burned with singing pain. What had just happened…did Toby just…no… it had to just be an accident…

"Hey, what was that for-" Laurel tried to state, but couldn't finish as pain suddenly exploded all over her chest and blood began spurting out of both the wound itself, and soon after, her mouth.

Her mind was still in a daze. She was completely dumbfounded; only registering agony, the still image of Toby Vrett holding her sword, and dumbly looking down, seeing said sword lodged in her chest cavity, just below her breasts.

Her eyes began to enlarge as she suddenly began to realize more and more what was really going on. The blade had punctured one of her lungs, she was now a goner. The blood leaking out began to seep down onto the wet concrete, and was now churning into the crystalline waters of the Olympic swimming pool, turning it into an opaque pink chlorinated mess. She was no longer staring at her wound, now she looked into her crushes green eyes, they beared no mania, no remorse, no empathy, not even hatred or anger…just…nothing…

"Wha-What's this?" she asked in a daze, managing to choke through the blood that was slowly drowning her.

"It's nothing personal, Laurel… I just wanted you to know that. I knew you liked me, that's what made this all the more easy." Toby said in a very much baritone voice, all of the compassion and sympathy that was once there, completely absent. His eyes shimmered, but not with warmth or kindness, merely just sunlight, apathetic sunlight. His face changed little as he considered the dying girl at the end of what was once her sword.

He mused again, "Funny how the very weapon that was yours would now become mine, and though it briefly served you in life, would now be your death… " He spoke, not at all mulling over how he was killing someone whom he used to know, and whom loved him unconditionally.

Laurel couldn't believe her eyes. The appearance and voice was the same, but the personality now seemed to be a complete 180 of the handsome and caring boy she once knew. One of the nicest and cutest boys at Cold Rivers high had just murdered her in cold blood…. She refused to believe it. It had to be someone merely masquerading as Toby, some other psychopath wearing a costume of Toby and doing a perfect Toby impression, yeah…that was it…

His face started bearing something of a curious expression. "Confusion, Hurt, betrayal… I wonder what's greater for you, the physical pain, or the emotional?" The boy asked like he was impersonating a James Bond villain.

The girl couldn't respond even if she wanted to, her eyes became unfocused as she just sputtered and coughed up more blood. She simply could not confer a reply.

"I take it the physical, well, thanks for the sword, Laurel." He said calmly and coldly as he lifted one of his legs and pressed it on her stomach. More fire erupted from her chest as he applied pressure. He then added, "Looks like befriending you had a use after all." He said with bestial cruelty. His lips formed into something of a grin, but it wasn't his trademark grin that always wooed her over and made her heart skip a beat, it was one of a sociopathic sadist, completely devoid of friendliness.

Laurel wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, or at least do something to stop the multi-dimensional facets of agony she was in, but it was all in vain, nothing could be done to prevent her imminent fate.

Finally, Toby completely kicked her off the pointed end of the sword, knocking her free, but back first into the Olympic pool, diluting it an even more solid, pigmented red as the water continued to swish and churn around her.

She tried to thrash, to keep herself afloat, but the water rapidly flooding into the wound and wide-open mouth filled her lungs far more rapidly then blood and made the drowning process much quicker for her. She wanted to scream as her struggling began to cease and she struggled to keep her head above the heated pool water.

She began losing blood faster and faster. She knew this would be where she met her maker. She wanted to cry, or scream, out of anger, out of despair, but most importantly, at the unfairness of the whole thing. But alas, her body was feeling the effects of severe exhaustion as well as severe numbness and cold due to the early stages of shock, sputtering and rasping was the only feasible course of action her body could preform.

Finally, within a moments time, her death throes became too much for her body to support and she sank completely underwater, it seemingly swallowing her whole. Blood continuing to paint elaborate patterns of Rorschach test-like as it seeped closer to the water's surface.

Finally after a while of commendable resistance against the raging whirlpools of the Olympic swimming pool, she stopped moving altogether and went limp. Before all consciousness fled her, she had something of an epiphany before the Grim Reaper came to take her away, and that last thought was, word for word: _Wow girl, you wanted a hero…looks like you got a villain disguised as a hero instead… please Superman…please save the day…_

And with that, the deprivation of oxygen became too much for her malnourished brain to take, and everything whirled to permanent darkness; and within minutes, she was dead in the Greer Manor's Olympic sized swimming pool. Cause of death? Drowning and exsanguination.

Her face bore an expression of panic mixed with terror. While she may have had a simple view on the world, in her last moments, she came to realize a fundamental truth: life is not a fairy tale. The girl is always left alone to defend herself and the monsters are not her biggest threat. In actuality, the young man is just as much a danger to her as the monsters.

Finally, as Laurel's motionless form sank all the way to the bottom of the swimming pool, along with her broken heart, Toby's face changed little as he watched her die. Her body twitched briefly, allowing for the slightest fraction of a smile to cross his face before returning to the curious look it held before. _So that's what murder feels like. There's not much to it really, is there?_

As the water slowly stopped churning due to the girl's lack of movement, the now still water glistened in the late morning sun like rubies, it gave Toby a serene opportunity to reflect on his thoughts, his curious ambition…_curiosity…ain't that a word for thought?_

If there was anything that Toby was plagued by, it was rampant curiosity. There was also the likelihood that he was an absolute sociopath, and that was one of the many things in life that he had been curious about, but in the grander scheme of things it was perhaps at the bottom of the list. He had known for some time that he did not relate to other people like most did, as he always had a hard time acknowledging that other people were even all that important. It was hard trying to manage a life where interpersonal relations were necessary, but at least those could be acted. With enough talent, anything could be acted... that always made Toby smile.

That dead Latino girl at the bottom of the bloody water; it had been Laurel at one point, sure, but there was nothing to care about in there. It was clear she had a crush on him at one point or another, while she was alive mind you. But that mattered little. None of it mattered really.

But curiosity... that always mattered. Toby was a boy curious over many a topic. However, the unfortunate constraints of American law (though they were disappearing all the time thankfully) had never allowed the boy to delve into his greatest interests. For the longest time he had wanted to study the human condition and the nature of the human body's survivability. Though he had toyed with the concept of pursuing a career into medicine or psychology in the past, he had found himself resigned to being a Plebian athlete upon entering the senior year. It wasn't that that was necessarily a bad thing, he had always been good at it, and it did prevent him from joining the one-third of his fellow citizens that were obese. But for him, the problem that it just wasn't... fun. It didn't arouse his excitement as much as the study of people did.

But then there came the Battle Royale. The great and glorious Battle Royale. If there was anything that would do best to empower someone with boundless curiosity, it would be the rules free environment of the Battle Ro-

A masculine yet still high-pitched shriek caught Toby off-guard. Whirling around, he was quick enough to catch sight of his attacker before they had sprung (Though how he didn't initially hear Anthony's footsteps earlier would forever elude him). Boy # 19, Anthony Rojas was only three-quarters the size of Toby, and about twice the weight and width; but he was running with all his might and screaming like a banshee. The look on his pimply, oily face was wild and almost feral, while in both his hands he held above his head what Toby could only see as a set of shearers. _I'm gonna get'em! This's your first kill Tony, teach this babosa why you don't come onto my turf! Make Walter and Carlos proud, just show how hard I rock!_

As the pug-looking Latino man sprinted closer, Toby deftly stepped out of the way and tripped the other boy.

And somehow, against arguably the laws of physics, as the boy was sent sprawling to the harsh concrete floor, his hedge clippers flew inwards towards his body. As he impacted the ground, he drove the dual blades deep into his abdomen, causing agony _and blood_ to erupt from the puncture like a fireball.

Now, the island's most recent eager participator was on the wet concrete, groggy, disoriented and against his comprehension, dying.

As he excruciatingly rolled onto his backside with a Herculean effort, he could see the extent of the damage. The blades had almost completely sunk into his abdominal cavity, nearly severing his spinal column. Blood gratuitously spurted and flowed from the wound every which way, further staining the already gruesome concrete and seeping even more into the pool just yards behind him. Around the long red handles of the gardening tool that had viciously penetrated him but he could visibly sticking out of him like a large red V, there seemed to be red pasta rolls around it; He could only stare in horror at his ruined belly.

For the first time in the game, he cried out like a mortally wounded in animal in great pain and even some fear. He reached for his intestines like a tentative child and felt his bloodied shirt and skin, for a moment, he was actually grossed out more then in pain, he was actually sort of feeling his insides. While he had experienced bone-crunching pain before, this was in a whole new galaxy of agony; being harpooned like a whale in this way, it was unfathomable.

He vomited out of disgust, a repugnant combination of bile and blood exited out of his mouth, further dirtying his shirt. Already his puke told his death story.

He tried flailing his hands in vain to put himself back together like a disassembled puzzle, to no avail whatsoever. As blood continued to blossom like flowers from his torso, Toby just stared at him with both a look of pleasant satisfaction, and shaking his head in disappointment, almost as if lambasting the dying Mexican for his vast stupidity.

Toby approached the mortally injured boy with the sword from the former Girl #14, and held it up into the sky, the sun glinted against the shiny steel blade like a mirror.

The downed boy was blinded by the light, his eyes were hurt on top of the rest of him; he was now sputtering and gurgling on his own mouth blood.

"_Carlos! Walter! Oh God It Hurts! Carlos, Anyone…HELP!" _He howled out through his pooling blood, his liquid soul that was profusely flowing from his useless mouth. Guttural sounds were plentiful.

Where had he gone wrong? How could he have been taken out so quickly? He hadn't even gotten one kill, hell, not even one real fight! How could this game be so unfair? I thought everyone got a chance? Now how could he show everyone what he had, he was dying a bitch's death… he wanted to scream at the way God was surely fucking him in the ass right now. _I was going to beat the game, I was going to be a hero! I was going to make Walter proud!_

Blood and digestive juices continued to splatter all over the place, but in an instant, none of that mattered. Toby Vrett, like a vigilante knight, thrusted the massive broadsword in a downward strike, piercing deep into Anthony's chest cavity, piercing his heart and officially taking him out of the Battle Royale.

He coughed up one last gout of blood, before his wide, muscular frame croaked over like a beached whale; limp and stone cold dead.

His eyes went glassy and unfocused. For a second, Anthony looked like he was about to blink, but he didn't; that was what told him the deed had been done.

Looking at the boy he just killed, seeing his blood torrentially flow into the pool, mixing with Laurel's and creating the illusion of a blood-red bird form in the water, turning his smile to the spreading blood beneath the ice, Toby watched its designs spread out into a blooming, sweeping design that looked all too much like a bird. _Like a phoenix risen. _Crimson-red flowers blossoming just like flora around this time of year.

He began to sift through Anthony's bag like a plunderer, nothing he found to be particularly useful, though the extra MRE's and water would probably prove to be excess insurance against him dying of malnutrition, so he swiped those, along with the pack of Red Apple cigarettes. His hedge clippers seemed to be a decent weapon, but it didn't even hold a candle to the sheer power of his Viking sword.

Getting up his things together, he double checked his weapons and supplies. His taser was tucked into his belt, along with the pack of cigarettes. The bloody sword he strapped to himself with the leather band that came with it. He was all set. _I think I may have been the first to kill twice, and in less than twelve hours! That's better then most other contestants, nice, probably better than everyone else in here! _

Turning back to his fresh two kills by the gruesomely defaced and horribly bloody pool, he eyed the most recent corpse that wasn't submerged in water. And feeling a hint of wit, jabbed with: "Hey, your people are all about clipping hedges, but it looks like bushes aren't the only thing those shears shear. Huh?"

Chuckling at his own joke, he thought of one other thing to say.

"Now, Anthony, can you please keep Laurel company? That'll be swell; now go ahead and get comfortable, it'll be a while." Toby paused to chuckle once more, "Now, if you'll wait here, I've got a game to win." He cracked.

The boy, formerly known as Boy #19, being a maimed corpse stayed silent, as corpses tended to do. Toby flippantly shrugged his shoulders, pretending like it was Anthony's loss.

Feeling comfortable with his own wit and proud of himself, the boy fled the scene, wondering how much time it would take to make it three.


	19. Hour 11: 43 Contestants Remaining

Within the view of the Greer Manor, and even within the same side of the island. The girl had waited on the outer boundaries of the once quarantined area for quite some time. She had no idea what happened or who had caused it, but somehow, judging from the halogen red light that scanned over the area of what she guessed was about half a mile circumference around the island's northern shore, she deduced that somebody caused a danger zone to pop up.

At least, temporarily.

That was about three hours ago. Since then, the area that was previously off limits. In all honesty, she had come across the danger zone after a previous, more macabre stumble-upon.

Beryl Puckett a.k.a. Girl #19 had seen several bodies in the past nine hours that in all seriousness skeeved her out more then she thought possible. The first body she came across was most certainly female. Female, and shot full of bloody, gaping holes. And a stick bolt protruding almost crudely from her skull like one of those cheesy arrow gag reels. Beryl needed to force back the vomit on that one.

Though thinking back to the announcements and seeing the scraggly light-brown hair, Beryl deduced it was Melissa. Some flies were hovering around her carcass, not an obscene amount, but enough to figure they were likely carrion. They were in a temperate climate, not like Mexico or Death Valley, she figured it would take quite a while for the scavengers and the natural decomposers to swoop down on the remains, _almost like what I would do sometimes_. Taken aback, Beryl walked away, horrified and speechless.

Later on she was taking a hasty stroll through Hillsborough campers, one of the trailer's screen doors was conspicuously open, she silently entered in, pistol at the ready and really kind of hoping for another target to shoot when instead she found yet another cadaver, she couldn't see the face due to a TV set being on top of it, but, thinking back to the names of the dead, It had to be Mickey Chiang at one point. Now he was broken and fried. Beryl actually felt more sadness at this body than disgust, this was someone she knew, someone whom used to hang out with her and was actually a decent-human being despite being in a gang of delinquents. Beryl wondered what the last thing that went through his mind as he was being shocked to death, who knows...She never would, nor would anybody else. Doing her due diligence and attempting internally to be respect to her fallen comrade, she only spent a few excess minutes in mourning before jogging along nauseously.

Finally after all that was said and done, she came upon the worst one yet. It was a body that had fallen apart like some sort of human body exhibit, it's innards at it's feet. It's eyes glassy and unfocused and stinking something fierce. It wasn't decomposed yet, but being dead and disemboweled in the wilderness for seven hours didn't compute to smelling like a meadow. Her surprisingly clean face and formerly pristine violet highlights however gave the girl an instant identification. Violet Belle. Her fingers were missing, and she had her jaw clamped down into something of a twisted grin. Creepy. Blood was all over her, the ground, everywhere.

This time she couldn't even force back the barf, she explosively upchucked onto the ground. After wiping the bile from her mouth and the initial shock subsiding, for some inexplicable reason she lingered around.

Considering the body, she spotted her wallet near her person. Tentatively scooping it up with pinched fingers, she opened up the billfold and found a hearty bundle of dollar bills.

It wasn't exactly grave robbing, but it sure felt like it. Besides, even if it were…blame it on the kleptomania, she hadn't had her Prozac in a long time.

Counting her loot, she got 412 dollars. She remembered that Violet came from a very wealthy family of fashion designers and models, both male and female, so of course the heiress of all that dough had quite a pretty penny at hand. Despite the fact this money belonged to someone, seeing that Violet would no longer need it wherever she was, she completely saw it fit to pocket it for herself.

It was amazingly clean and devoid of human fluid, but being it was surrounded by its pocketbook which soaked in its owners life juices, it was almost literal blood money.

Stuffing the fistful of dollars greedily into her pocket, like kleptomaniacs liked to do, she mouthed a 'thank you' to the deceased Violet and went on her way.

Fortunately she hadn't seen any mutilated corpses since, but unfortunately, she hadn't caught sight or sound of anyone else whatsoever (aside from the loud scream turned guttural roar she heard about an hour ago from above the highest peak). It was just her and the scenery as she strolled across the sandy shore, watching the tide repeatedly go in and retreat out to the ocean. The cold Gulf of Alaska water caused ripples of silver to form on the surface. The ocean and the late morning sun on the beach, this was an ideal photo op, perfect scene for an episode of Baywatch. Y'know, the show where the hunky lifeguards and bubbly chicks would run in slow-motion, where the CPR preformed stood for: Clean, Pretty, and Reliable instead of Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation.

Though it was incredibly tranquil, she could now see what the appeal to Weber's Seaside Resort really was, back when it actually was a resort. Of course, that locale was on the southern end of the island versus the north. This was almost too beautiful for words, it was like Hawaii during the fall. She calmly watched at the perfectly blue sky and reflected ocean water that shimmered like diamonds. It almost seemed too enchanting for this earth, like she was in an entirely different dimension all-together…alas if that were the case.

For some reason she now suddenly craved a tropical fruit smoothie, papayas, mangos, pineapples and oranges…that sounded wonderful! Feeling thoughtful and intellectual, she thought of the potential this place could've had, how such a hellish tournament was taking place on a place of near mystical beauty and luxury…

"This hell looks just like paradise." Beryl solemnly muttered with her CZ-75 pistol held loosely in one hand.

Her mind jumped back and forth to faces and places she knew she'd never see again. Despite being a (now technically ex, especially considering they'd literally kill one another if contacted again) girlfriend to a rambunctious delinquent, she still did come from a loving, completely functional family.

Thoughts rambled again, this time going even further to the wayside. She was craving a plate of cheese fries, the grease-stained ones that you knew were a plague to your health that they sold at Free Birds burgers back in Cold Rivers, _nightmare on your complexion and figure, girl_. She remembered the place had a distinctively southwestern vibe to it, with pictures of desert scenery and depictions of cacti and gunslingers decorating the walls along with faux-cow skulls. The employees would always wear Stetsons similar to that redneck April girl. _Actually, doesn't April herself work there? Makes sense. _The stereo system would always blare Lynyrd Skynyrd, Allman Brothers, Johnny Cash, or even more obscure acts such as Molly Hatchet. They had their own patented "death sauce" that claimed to be so hot that'd dissolve your eyeballs, in reality it just masked the flavor of whatever you put it on and more or less was synonymous with Cholula.

She wanted to be young again. She wanted to be safe, maybe go to her cousin's house for the holidays and open a few presents with all of her cousins crowded around her. Faces flashed by here and there, branching out from cousins to schoolmates to neighbors: Mom and Dad, Aunt Marsha, Mickey, Anthony, Bonnie, Cousin Frank, Mitsumi, Brayden and Morgan, that hot Tyler O'Connor guy with the huge dick who lived down the street from her house, the Macintoshes' and their amazing fucking apple cider, Uncle Reed and even her kindergarten teacher who she hadn't seen in years. It was a cryptic list – just names and faces that she was never going to see again.

Unless of course she made it happen.

There would be no home for her, no mom and dad to go to, no cheese fries for her to snack on, no Tyler to fuck whenever she was feeling horny and didn't want to put up with Walter's crap. None of that would be reserved for her back home, unless she made sure of it. Beryl alone had to secure a place back in her comfortable life back in Cold Rivers Washington by surviving, first of all.

That realization further incentivized her, refurbished her will to play. She was a hot pepper with an itchy trigger finger. Winning, she could buy plenty more plates of cheese fries, jewelry, pretty much any damn thing she wanted. She could bail her cousin Frank out of juvy; she could probably afford not to give a fuck about medication for her kleptomania, hell. She needed to play to survive!

Looking around wildly through the sight of her pistol, she gained acute awareness and squinted her eyes like a provoked hawk, looking around for something, anything, anyone. God, where the fuck cou-

Beryl suddenly found her step intercepted by some foreign object just underneath the shore's plentiful layer of sand.

Her foot got stuck on the object and caused her to stumble. When she looked at the object, it was somewhat buried, half sunken into the dunes. Beryl brushed off the light layer of sand and completely unearthing the thing.

Lifting the mysterious rectangle into the shining sun, she judged based on the smooth texture that it was metallic. As she further examined the thing, she realized it was encased in a smooth plastic case, snapping the case open, she realized what this was. A notebook computer.

Beryl mulled, perplexed over the device. Something about it disturbed her to no end. Of all things, it shouldn't have really upset her as much as it did, but it just seemed so out of place, so foreign, it just wasn't right. If it had been aged a bit more, maybe then it would have made some sense, but no, this thing was brand new. Maybe its protector covered in sand, but still definitely very new. _Who would put a laptop in the middle of an abandoned beach? Seriously, where would you get one and why would you put it here?_

"Why is this here?" Beryl asked aloud. "This is creepy."

She considered and deliberated over the fate of the computer for a hearty few minutes, until her ultimate decision was that it would just be extra weight. Far more of a liability then an asset. What kind of purpose would this thing serve for her? Not like there's fucking wi-fi on this island, likely all that would happen is either no server, or her neck jewelry would cause her head and her body to go their separate ways.

So she set the thing down, for a moment she thought she spotted a leaflet, but disavowed the notion and just ignored it. It's a shame, it looked pretty high-tech and of modest market value, if not on a solitary island, and being threatened with imminent death, she likely would've scooped it up and sold it.

Sighing, an idle part of her still told her to remember this sector of the coast, who knows, while she didn't feel like lugging it around the entire island, maybe if she secluded it from anybody else's snooping, it could provide an abstruse benefit.

Suddenly a figurative light bulb sprung above Beryl's head as her nimble mind crafted an idea, a seemingly brilliant one to boot.

Picking up the notebook, Beryl jogged to a nearby palm tree and went to her knees and did a job more reminiscent of children at play in a sandbox, too bad she didn't have a plastic shovel or bucket to work with though. Instead she spent four minutes digging a deep and wide enough crevice with her scooped hands to contain the laptop. She placed said device in the hole, then like an excited puppy dog with a bone, she sealed the hole back up with a bevy of sand.

Intuitively, another thought to make this burial site more distinctive and prevent it from being lost amongst the dozens of other shoreline palm trees, Beryl found a multitude of mundane mineral-stones lying around and quickly gathered three of them. She dumped the trio of rocks at the deposition and arranged them into a triangular formation. Awesome, no way could this exist in nature, and it would be far too abstruse for anyone else to guess it was her doing.

Looking at it with a sense of satisfaction, she got up and smacked her hands together as a sign of a task complete, it was an esoteric indicator of the deed accomplished here. It was only for her to know, and no one else to figure out where her hidden treasure was.

She smiled a pretty smile of pleasant satisfaction, _now that that's out of the way, it's time to mark my map, can't forget this area after all_.

She took out the map hanging around her neck by a clear, cellophane pouch and quickly scribbled a checkmark onto the zone on which she was currently located in with the lack-luster ink pen provided in her bag along with the rest of her things.

With all affairs in order, Beryl Puckett took off once more completely proud of herself, looking back to the burial site of the earthed laptop and again to the gorgeous near-afternoon sun, she thought to herself, _I wonder if this island is from another dimension after all._

The thought caused her to chuckle softly to herself, just as she double-checked the magazine of the semi-automatic pistol one more time.

_Full capacity, locked and loaded! Stay alert, stay frosty!_

* * *

The place was dark, dank, dinghy and antiquated…everything that Violet Belle, formerly Girl # 24 would've hated. But in the torpid mind of Shira Sweet-Belle, a.k.a. Girl # 8, none of that could be associated of anything. The observations of her senses, the nearly-non existent lighting aside from a few glows of silver light pouring from a few open trapdoors above her and spread apart greatly, the musty stench of rusted mining equipment and moist, moldy wood, the slight difficulty of trudging through the vast chasms of dirt. While she could perceive of all of these facets, her mind could no longer intrinsically associate them with materials or sensations she knew. Her unmindful brain simply knew no more properties, she may as well be reverted to before she was born.

The world of Girl #8 had stood at a needle-tip before toppling off into darkness. Or more specifically, a mineshaft. Which is were she had been progressing in a state of near-catatonia for the past four hours. Soon after the sun rose on Weber's resort and she departed from the mini-cathedral, she had come across a trapdoor near an innocuous wooden cabin in the woodlands, maybe it had belonged to some lumberjack at some point. The trapdoor seemed like a portal to another universe, but Shira didn't care, ever since Violet was killed by that demon, nothing mattered too much.

Shira had entered a trance of unawareness. Her mind simply disconnected with the real world, retreating into a crystal shell where nothing could harm her. The rest of her body still moved on autopilot, fueled by a distant sense of self preservation. She still had her remaining supplies, the Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolver tucked into the waistline of her muddied designer jeans and her pockets overstuffed with the massive bullets that came from a box.

Thinking of nothing better to do with her life, she nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and marched into the abyss without so much as a second thought.

As it turned out, this place was like a labyrinth, would she run into a Minotaur? Who knows, who cares?

For hours she had walked without resting, only pausing to take a methodical bite out of an MRE or a swig from her bottled water before shoving it back into her pack. Twice she had seen another person, the first of them a troubled girl with a gun in her hands, the second fairly recently, a very fat boy looking harried as he took off in the other direction down the hallow tunnel. Both times she remained hidden as well as she could. She was a girl of small stature and was more than a little inconspicuous. Dropping to the ground and curling up in a ball, she was virtually unnoticeable. Once the other person had moved on, she continued her trek.

The journey was long. It was endless. There was no final destination, and each step she took brought her a tiny way closer to nothing. She had the vaguest sense that she was walking in circles, but then again there was nothing that Shira could infer from that. _Keep walking, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…_

Her legs did tire, but there was nothing she could do about them. Maintaining her gait was a necessity, she didn't know why but she knew she had to keep it up. She couldn't slow down; else she'd be shot and ticketed. She could walk if it prevented her from being ticketed. She could walk forever.

Though occasionally, she would come to a wet section, instantly meaning she would have to turn back unless she wanted to wander under the ocean's surface and have her collar explode, or even worse, drown slowly and painfully.

After a while, she hadn't spotted any secluded patches of light seeping from above, except for one solitary one. In the corner of her eye, a bright light began to edge out of the mineshaft. After several hours of darkness, it pained her eyes so delusionally that she almost laughed.

A small, decrepit set of steps lead up to the thing. Her face formed the first discernable expression aside from complete listlessness in five hours, she smirked slightly. She jokingly pounded her fist several times into the wood, mimicking a knock. _I wonder who will answer? The Minotaur, the demon that killed sis'? Gateway to Heaven? Hell?_

Hell? She was already in it. This Battle Royale, this was the embodiment of hell. Fifty contestants… some of them were monsters, others innocent souls who had gotten trapped. Remember when the witch-harlot killed Violet?

Abigail was here too…but she had been converted into a demon by Satan's forces, the devil was present in her seemingly innocuous soul. Now she was out there, doing hell's work. Just like in Miller's Crucible… Ms. Williams.

They shared the same name, Abigail Macintosh, Abigail Williams, ones a murderer, the other…an indirect murderer… sent people to their deaths though allegations, almost like a siren. Almost the same age, 18 and 17 respectively. Ms. Williams was just a psychotic and pathologically envious clingy girl who got a big head, Ms. Macintosh…who knows what got to her, they both did the work of Satan, in their own respects.

_Though neither of them better interrupt my walk. Though there be hell to pay._

There was muttering above her and Shira was sure the moment she got out through that light, she would be home; her real home, the lord's home, and Violet and everybody would be okay and together again. This was all a horrible dream! It all made so much sense!

The muttering continued until finally, the light exploded with a creaking of wood and splintery dust falling onto the mineshaft.

The planks enveloped as the light was in a square shape now, and it took Shira a minute to realize she was staring at a trapdoor. A face, serious and with a yellowish complexion, was staring back at her as her eyes were blinded by the light.

Was this was all just a bizarre dream?! If so, what a goddamn stupid one; _a killing game_. That only happened elsewhere, not in America, Battle Royale, that's in places like Japan and Europe.

"It's Shira, guys!" the face called. "C'mon, guys it's Shira Belle! She's in the mineshaft! I can't believe it! _In the mineshaft_!"

That was when Shira realized this wasn't her ticket home or her parents. In fact, it wasn't even God, Violet or anyone close. It was Lyra Archer, a.k.a. Girl #25. She was staring at her blankly with a look caught between surprise and relief. It was almost like she had been waiting for somebody to pass for hours.

Before Shira could think anything else, she was wrenched out of the mineshaft and through the trapdoor into the burning light. There were wooden rafters above her and it took a minute for her to realize she was in a large barn. It was rusty-looking, old, and tattered, but it was a barn nonetheless. Below her was the trapdoor to the mineshaft which she had just magically appeared in, and likely terrified Lyra.

"I can't believe it!" Lyra exclaimed. "You're okay, right? I mean, we would have found you earlier but we didn't know the trapdoor hear led down to a mineshaft! I still can't believe it; there's like a whole system of underground tunnels here. I wonder why there's a trapdoor into it in the barn".

"An escape route, maybe", another voice said. Shira turned around, still dazed by the sunlight streaming through the barn, to see Bonnie Navarro a.k.a. Girl #6. She was a slightly stocky, tall girl with long hair that was black (yet took the illusion of being midnight blue if you caught it properly in the right lighting) and curled; along with a long and slender face. "Are you thirsty, Shira?"

Shira nodded in a daze. She hardly knew these girls, aside from the fact they were a couple and all on the same choir that Shira was first chair of.

Lyra had a short and pursed face, quite young looking, yet still managing to look attractive. While Bonnie had a long and lenient face like a shocked deer stopping in the headlights of a car.

"Brayden Dillinger is in the kitchen making lunch", Bonnie explained. "I'll tell him to get you water or something. For a barn, this place is pretty nice; it smells like horses, but it has a kitchen and bathroom back in the corner. We sort of set up a clinic here for everyone. There's enough medicine in the pantry for nearly everyone here on the island. If anyone comes by, we decided to take care of them if they're injured".

"Speaking of which, are you okay? You don't look too good." Lyra interjected, "I mean, no offense, you look very pretty, but, it's just… you seem disturbed."

"Wow Lyra, way to be subtle." Bonnie chastised, "her sister died, I'd be pretty damn traumatized if that happened to me, learn worldly awareness."

"I'm sorry Bon Bon, it's just that was the only way I could spit it out, you know?"

"How? Just, 'hey I know your sister was violently and gruesomely murdered, but it's just you look weird.' Is that how?" Bonnie spat back.

"Gosh Bon Bon, you don't have to be so hot-blooded you know, I mean, this game has put all of us on edge, but still, just, sorry, gosh." Lyra stammered out.

"Well whatever, just… learn to read people more, don't tell me you have Asperger's or what-not…'cause that ain't it." Bonnie concluded, "oh well, I'm really sorry about that, Shira, is there anything I can do to help you?" she offered.

Shira's eyes had blankly followed the lesbians as they exchanged words during that brief squabble. She did not respond to either of their prompts, instead she continued to drone on, undaunted.

"Hey!" Bonnie called out, she reached her hand out and put it on Shira's shoulder while Lyra followed both of them in a demure walk. "_Are you okay_?" Bonnie asked again, this time with a little bit of irritation.

She continued to walk, completely unfazed and uncaring of whatever output another person was giving her. Bonnie rushed up to Shira and placed her hand on her shoulder. Shira was jerked to a stop and forced to turn around, facing the confused and irritated Bonnie, Lyra watching on concernedly.

_Those bitches tried to stop me from walking, that's not allowed! Where are the soldiers on the halftrack? Penalize her!_

Finding nobody to carry out her delusional expectations, Shira instead shrugged off the girl's hand. _It doesn't matter. Nobody can stop me from winning the game. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…_

"Hey, what was that about? What the fuck's wrong?" Bonnie hissed.

Shira continued to be despondent, though she herself felt a rising sense of pestilence.

"Jesus Christ, you know you're going to die if you keep walking. If you get out there someone will kill you just for so much as being there. You need to stay here if you know what's good for you." Bonnie explained angrily as she hauled Shira around. Bonnie wasn't a particularly strong girl, but Shira was very lightweight for a girl her age, so it wasn't a very cumbersome task.

_She's doing it again, come on now, demerits! Where are the soldiers? Privates, ticket her! It's not fair how she keeps harassing me, is it? Come on now, how do you expect me to win if she's persistently bothering me and… oh, I see where this is going. So she's the Director's daughter, huh? So that's why she gets the privilege. That's why she's uncontrolled by the penalizations. Well, if the game won't ticket her, I'll take things in my own hands._

She pulled the pistol from her belt, firing a deafening shot to the sky as Bonnie flinched. The recoil of the gun was immense, but in her past life, the Macintoshes' had taught her how to properly handle guns and she was able to pull it off with minimal damage. Some strain in the muscles of her arm, but hardly threatening. As long as her leg muscles worked perfectly, there would be no issue.

The warning shot had done it's job a bit too well, Bonnie and Lyra were clearly scared away by the bullet. But within seconds time, a loud, squat girl of African-American descent, a.k.a. Morgan Zachary a.k.a. Girl #21, rushed into the room by the cot where the stables were and hesitantly had her boyfriend's (Brayden Dillinger a.k.a. Boy #17) randomly assigned Luger P08 pistol at the ready. A masculine yelp could be heard from the kitchen, it was presumably Brayden.

"What the fuck was that?" Morgan asked in a hysteric voice, with feral eyes that wildly looked around in a manner as animalistic to match the gaze.

Bonnie and Lyra had sunken away from the deranged choirgirl who continued to drone on autopilot like a zombie. They both shakily pointed to the emotionless girl ahead, Morgan quickly scanned the girl head to toe and spotted the revolver tucked into her belt

Morgan in response immediately pointed the vintage World War 2 handgun at the offender.

"Stop! Drop your gun!" she shouted at Shira like a frightened police officer, "I'll kill you if you don't fucking stop!"

Shira did flinch at being yelled at, but other then that, she continued to shamble onwards, very much undeterred. Despite Morgan's demands and facing the barrel of a loaded pistol, Shira audaciously continued forward.

Morgan continued to bark at Shira, but she continued forward. Getting increasingly agitated, she spontaneously fired a shot next to Shira's right foot, causing her to flinch and causing Bonnie and Lyra to cower further.

Morgan got a hysterical look in her face as her eyes lit up and she shouted further out of terror and pride.

"I'm tellin' ya, I'll shoot you dead right here and now, you're disturbing the peace!" she yelled with an echo of irony.

Shira had a hitch in her step for a second, but then continued to walk. She made it out of the small paint-peeling door that lead out to the area where all of the horse stables and haybales were stored prior to the island's involuntary exodus.

Morgan stared baffled despite the fact she had accosted the small girl and she still didn't yield, before she could further vociferate at Shira, Brayden Dillinger a.k.a. Boy #17, appeared from the kitchen and dashed swiftly up to his girlfriend.

He grasped his hands gently on her left arm and rapidly murmured into her ear,

"Look, she's not causing any harm now, she put away the gun and is just walking herself out of here, I say we let her go, what's her decision is her decision." Brayden calmly, yet quickly explained to his polar opposite girlfriend.

"But what if she plays?" Morgan refuted. "Or dies?" Lyra added.

_Either's fine with me_. Bonnie thought to herself.

"Well, let nature takes it course, she doesn't seem to be a harm to anyone. Who are we to restrain her? If you love something, set it free, y'know?" Brayden said poetically. Typical of a stoner of his build.

"But I don't love Shira, or even like her too much for that matter. She's annoying as hell." Morgan whined.

"Whatever, my point still stands." Brayden said with a note of finality.

By the time Brayden had concluded calming down his fiery fraulein, Shira had shambled through the barnyards massive red and white door, seemingly melting into the sun, destined for an unknown future. Most likely death; time and method of execution however is yet to be determined. Though Shira did mentally thank Brayden for his understanding of her.

The now quadruplet of teens stood still and watched Shira for a few tense moments until she completely disappeared over the meadow's hill. None of them really wanted to fight too hard to get her to stay, especially given that she had a gun and that they suspected she wasn't prepared to give out anymore warning shots.

After a moderate period of silence, Brayden broke it.

"Soooo…who want's sandwiches?" he offered rather unexpectedly.

No one was really opposed to the notion, so unanimously they all walked together into the kitchen for some freshly made brunch, and hopefully, just hopefully, the thought of imminent death and destruction would mitigate over their indoor picnic.

_Maybe Brayden's pot would help. _Morgan thought to herself with a wry smirk.

* * *

While the four occupants of the bright red barn commenced in early lunch, far more appetizing then the MRE's they began with, Vikram Paval a.k.a. Boy #15 watched Shira Sweet-Belle shamble away from the area from the second level of the barn a football's punt away, the far more decrepit and rotten looking one. It was almost a dark sort of wonder, even in broad daylight, the edifice still managed to look creepy as hell.

As she shambled away into the bright morning sun, Vikram couldn't help but wonder if she was the one responsible for those gunshots earlier. Whatever happened, he sure was glad he was secluded from it. He couldn't help but shudder at the thought if anyone died, if a massacre was incurred at the hands of the once pretty and sweet choirgirl.

Forcing the thought out of his mind, Vikram once again swatted some loose hay off of his khaki's and toyed around with his screwdriver. It was beginning to become quite the nuisance of such a gratuitous amount of hay kept winding up on him, how much hay could there possibly be in this shithole barn?

Sighing to himself, he looked away and stared at the decrepit, hole perforated ceiling of the barn for a little while.

After calming down completely, he got relaxed and began to listen out for the next announcement, he looked down at his cheap digital watch.

_11:37, less than thirty minutes…let's see who else bought it._

Sighing, he looked away from the open window from the second floor and laid torpidly on a hay-bale and sung solemnly to himself a song he only knew from his misplaced, and already possibly deceased friend Joel, he opened his mouth after raspily clearing his throat.

_"Pretty woman, walking down the street. Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet, Pretty woman. I don't believe you, you're not the truth. No one could look as good as you…Mercy…"_

He sang in a croaky voice, astonished he himself knew this amount of the song lyrics this well, "_Pretty woman, won't you pardon me, Pretty woman, I couldn't help see, Pretty woman_…" he trailed off, drawing vocal blanks.

_Roy Orbison died from a heart attack, right? Smoked too much. It's all the same with those people – if it's not a plane crash it's a drug overdose. Oh well, it's like that old saying; if there's a rock and roll heaven, then you know they've got a hell of a band..._

Vikram thought to himself, stabbing his screwdriver absentmindedly into a molded post, sticking it into the dilapidated wood.

It would be a long three days…


	20. Hour 12: 43 Contestants Remaining

As they would for every six hours until the end, the speakers around the island creaked and squealed, segueing into the voice of none other than the male half of the Battle Royale announcer duo, Dante "Discord" Donovan.

"Good afternoon my dear Battle Royalers, this is your eye's in the sky Discord Donovan reporting to you live with the latest carnage report, and I gotta say, your kills have been top-notch bloody-creative, gratuitous grade A death-dealing! In spite of that being my upbringing however, I am very much disappointed in you all, only three deaths?! When Julia asked you to pick up the pace, we didn't think that'd have the opposite effect. If I request for it, then will you give some proper sportsmanship? Just please pick up the pace, this was lousy. Ahh, oh well, enough dilly-dallying, it's time to give you the order in which who and how your most recent classmates to be fitted for a body-bag met their end."

Dante could be heard clearing his throat and scrunching up a ream of papers until he spoke once more,

"Okay, the first honored combatant to have fallen is Alexander Golden a.k.a. Boy # 7, started off with a shotgun and got a big head, and wound up losing both to Judith Henriksen via flying death disc. Great job my little fraulein! The next two to bite it were Laurel Cruz a.k.a. Girl # 14 and Anthony Rojas a.k.a. Boy # 19. The reason I refer to them sequentially is because they both died within a few minutes of each other and were each done in by the same person, Toby Vrett. Laurel got a sword driven into her chest and ultimately died of drowning in an Olympic swimming pool, while Anthony idiotically disemboweled himself with his own clippers and was executed like a loser warrior by a valiant knight by having said sword pierce his chest. That piece of scum was too dumb to live, good riddance in my opinion. Great job Toby, you're officially the first to kill twice, and in under twelve hours, not too shabby!"

More shuffling of papers could be heard and the cackling of ice cubes and swishing of liquid from Dante's margarita could be heard as he took a hearty sip.

"Well, that concludes our noontime report, keep up the good fight my little monsters, stay alive and frosty my future Battle Royale champion, and to the rest of you…make your death worthy and unique, we don't want to watch a dozen of you get shot in the head, even if it is cool. Keep up the violence, Discord out

The forty-three teenagers still capable of hearing mulled over the flippantly light announcements, each in different ways. Some felt no remorse for the act they had done, others nearly soiled themselves upon hearing the newest additions to the body count, others just couldn't get enough of the info.

Luke Donahue a.k.a. Boy #1 felt a severe degree of grief and sadness upon hearing of his friend's very recent death, he had a feeling this was going to happen, he just didn't expect it so suddenly. He wondered if he somehow could've stopped it, looking to his friend Carlos (Boy #6), he could tell the feeling was mutual.

Lily Marsh a.k.a. Girl #4 tried her best to ignore the announcements as she downed another shot of tequila.

Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5's throat had stopped bleeding a while ago, while he knew he was very lucky to still be alive, he felt woozy and disoriented and wasn't quite sure if he'd be alive for much longer, though.

Shira Sweet-Belle a.k.a. Girl #8 didn't care what the announcement had to say and continued to drone on with her interminable walk.

Michael Yunin a.k.a. Boy #9 was utterly baffled, how the _fuck _was Abigail still alive? Eh, oh well. He digressed as he continued to formulate his strategy for escape, _need to find Mitsumi_.

Trixie Song a.k.a. Girl #9 was a girl of many sins, but envy was not one of them. She had not been able to secure a kill in the past six hours, but her time to rise would come again soon enough. And hopefully Mitsumi would soon be on the end of her scythe.

Logan Heffley a.k.a. Boy #13 looked away from the loudspeaker closest to him with a look of disgust. _Fuck you, I hope you all fucking rot and die!_

Brayden Dillinger a.k.a. Boy #17 had finished smoking his marijuana joint about ten minutes ago, he hoped the buzz would help mitigate the insurmountable terror of the Battle Royale and it's damned announcements.

Pamela Ridley a.k.a. Girl #18 was eternally grateful that Lily, the name she had been dreading, was fortunately not on the list.

Mathias Willard a.k.a. Boy #20 had stirred awake just in time to here the cacophony of the islands many speakers buzz into the still cathedral.

Lyra Archer a.k.a. Girl #25 had finished eating lunch along with her other barn-mates and was now cleaning the dishes in the kitchen sink, old habits did die hard after all, even in the Battle Royale.

* * *

Walking with a spring in her step down Brightwell Avenue of Hillsborough's downtown metropolitan, Victoria Sanchez a.k.a. Girl #22 cheerily sang along to one of her favorite songs.

"School's, out, for, summer!" she shouted with particular glee.

The far less ebullient girl beside her in uniform step just sighed a worn out sigh with an emotionless countenance.

"Could you please cease that undesired singing, Victoria?" Octavia Manago a.k.a. Girl #16 asked calmly with only the faintest hint of annoyance.

"Hey, lighten up," Vicky said with a smile, "that's a classic there!"

Octavia raised an eyebrow and peered at her with vacant eyes, only to Vicky however could curiosity be registered in her gaze.

"A classic huh," Octavia said, "I don't consider this…drivel to be _classic_. Not even euphonic or rhapsodic in the slightest. Mozart, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky...even Evgeny Kissen, yes. This…absolutely not. Besides, it might enlighten someone of our presence."

"Eh, oh well… I've got the shotgun," Victoria said, punctuated by her hoisting up the boomstick, "so I get to say what's classic, got it?"

Octavia looked at the shotgun, Victoria wasn't actually threatening her with it, just the expression on her face told it in it's entirety. Even with the purple glasses that completely tinted her eyes, the sly, jocose grin easily showed she didn't mean harm. Then with a slight smirk of her own, Octavia flicked her switchblade out and pointed it at Vicky's throat.

"H-hey, Tavi," Vicky stammered, her confidence suddenly converted to fear, "I was just kidding, y'know?" Her cheery grin was now a forced smile of anxiety as the cold steel was pressed against her jugular.

Feeling satisfied enough, Octavia retracted the blade as Vicky gulped then consecutively let out a sigh.

"Well, Victoria, even if you are the one who has the gun… I'm the one who actually can fight, gun's mean nothing if you aren't absolutely aware of what's happening around you. Just thought I'd notify you." Octavia lectured trying to maintain a cold and stern front, but eventually couldn't keep it up and let out a small chuckle.

That was enough to let Vicky know that it was safe to breathe easy again. Vicky honestly loved Octavia to death, but even she had to admit she could be really fucking scary at times, not due to extreme brutality or axe crazy propensities, but merely even in circumstances such as this she shows close to no emotion whatsoever. Of course maybe that is a sign of insanity on its own. _Eh, maybe that's good for this, easier to progress, kill without being anchored by guilt._

"Eh, whatever Tavi, my pop's taken me shooting before, so I think I can handle this beauty." She boasted proudly.

"Oh, I'm certain." Octavia sarcastically replied, "Say, where do you suppose everybody is?" she asked.

Victoria opened her mouth widely and looked as though she were about to shout, but before anything could come out, she felt the metal again, this time against her breasts, just above her sternum.

"Don't. You. Dare." Octavia hissed menacingly.

What she was referring to was Victoria's pension for levity and incongruous actions, Vicky was about to scream "Anybody there?" and Octavia sensing this took brazen and immediate action.

Vicky swallowed her shout and raised her hands in compliance; Octavia tucked her switchblade back into its hilt with a firm nod.

"You should stop doing that, it's kinda freaking me out." Vicky said with a modicum of disturbance.

"I apologize Victoria, but you were about to do something brash that would have alerted any potential hunter nearby to our presence. It was a necessary action, you understand." Octavia calmly explained, with her now sheathed switchblade tucked in her performer tuxedo's pocket.

"Yeah I guess, but next time you can tell me instead of slitting my throat maybe?"

"…Okay. I'm sorry." Octavia apologized with sincerity, even if it didn't seem like she was conveying it.

In all honesty there was no way Octavia would mean serious harm to Vicky, she was after all one of the only persons in the world she showed even one iota of compassion to. After all they've been through and after all Vicky's done for her, Octavia pretty much owed her life to the disc jockey. But occasionally it was quite amusing to act dangerously hostile to her, it piqued a degree of amusement from the normally stoic cellist.

Creeping around a buildings corner, the two girls eyed the asphalt jungle of Main Street. Although it was no more or less wide than any average Main Street in any average Midwest town, to the two girls (well, to Victoria at least) it appeared to be a no-man's land nearly a mile wide. A single car sat stalled eerily in the middle of the street, even with the bright sun raised at high noon, it still looked to be a grim day.

"Well, I don't know where anyone is," Vicky said in response to an earlier question, "Maybe we're just not looking well enough."

"Hmm, perhaps." Octavia responded. "So who's turn is it?" she asked. They had taken turns every time they would cross a street in case opportunistic snipers happened to be watching. At least in that case they had an even chance of living and dying.

"Yours," Vicky said quickly. With her shotgun pointed outwards, the girl pointed quickly to the street, "You get behind the car, I'll meet you there, then you hop, skip and jump to the building on the other side of the street, you get me?"

"Affirmative." Octavia confirmed.

"I'll keep you cover and look out." Victoria assured her phlegmatic friend.

With a convicted nod, Octavia prepared to sprint.

"Hit it!" Victoria said sharply as she pushed Octavia into the street. The thin girl ran quickly in spite of her unseasoned physique, her pack bobbing up and down with every step. She ducked down quickly beside the car and waved for Victoria. Looking around the corner of the building just to be safe, Vicky took off in a run with her less than versatile farmer shotgun and ducked behind the stalled car. _Done this a million times, it gets easier every time._

This made her laugh slightly. _Gillian would've found that funny as hell._

"What's so funny?" Octavia asked.

"Nothing, just stress, gonna go two for two?" Victoria replied.

"Okay, certainly." Octavia answered, she made a dash from the car around the back wall of a red brick building, a few more blocks and they would have the central town area fully inspected, Vicky could only marvel at how easy it had been.

"Hey Ho, Let's go!" she sang to herself as she followed suit behind her friend.

* * *

Thing's hadn't been going so good for Nick Delaney, a.k.a. Boy #23, but he still held the distinct belief that things were looking up, or at least weren't getting worse. That was always a plus, right?

Nick fell back on the plan that he had been formulating in his head for the longest time. Hell, it was the plan the boy had been dreaming up for the longest time. Being a Battle Royale nerd as it was, he had been studying past seasons and dreaming up plans and strategies in the off hope that he could someday get the chance to play the game. As of his entry into the game, Nick considered two options to be the most optimal:

1) Team up, hunt and hide. It helped if you could get one, maybe more allies armed with firearms and do a combination of defensive and offensive maneuvers to sweep through the game. Optimally he would have three of them, one bigger, one smaller, and one who he could trust implicitly only to backstab later in the game.

2) Hunt. Get a gun and stalk through the game, taking whatever chances necessary and pillaging the dead for useful and more powerful weapons. Initially find a weapon and take out all the students at the starting bunker. Ideally within this he could find a rifle of some sorts and then make it to the town's tallest building or highest point and use it as a platform to kill contestants as they wandered by on their merry way.

Neither of those seemed feasible at this point, the announcements had given him away and already branded him a killer, so no way would anybody trust him (as well as there weren't many people in this game he knew, or liked for that matter). And while he did have a pistol, no long range rifle, so that was out…unless of course he got his hands on that kind of firepower, but he digressed. He would continue to hunt, but no early sabotage was viable.

After killing Melissa, he had sought medical help. The wounds he had gotten from the scuffle with her, blondie, and Rain Forscythe (the name he would forever curse) weren't life threatening, only a stab wound to the side and an arrow to the bicep (which he removed earlier with great pain and particular scorn). They weren't mortal wounds, but they still hurt like hell, he'd need relief if he were to wish to continue an effective hunt in peak condition, plus there was the possibility of infection that could pose a problem, he'd need to fix that up.

But where would he go? Medical clinic? No, anyone and everyone who's bound to get hurt will go there. Go to the police station, there was bound to be a first aid kit.

Fortunately for Nick, he was correct. Following the map, he had found that the Hillsborough Police Station had been a boon for the boy. Upon entering the beige, lack-luster building's reception area, he had followed a series of signs from the city's crest and wound up in the center of police operations. Nick still tried to muster as much stealth as he could, should any other unexpected occupants remain in the domicile. He still had his pistol and it was loaded, but given the immense pain he was in and sensitivity, he really didn't want to get into unnecessary firefights in such indigent condition.

Thankfully, the place was deserted. There he had found a green parka with a shiny bronze police badge on it in the police chief's office which he took for the hell of it, as well as an old but still cool looking light-brown cowboy hat which he also swiped from a nearby coat rack. It wasn't at all necessary, but it still looked totally badass.

Pillaging an emergency first aid kit, Nick dry-swallowed a handful of Vicodin for the pain, poured about half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on the wounds on his bicep and side (_God that stung!_) and did his best to bandage the wounds, it wasn't exactly medically professional, but it would suffice in proper convalescence. It was still quite painful, but at least things were beginning to look up.

He stuffed the remaining provisions within the first aid kit into his bag and exited with the cowboy hat on his head and the shiny badge on his chest.

"I'm back baby!" Nick said to himself with a smile.

That was about three hours ago, going back into the world again with the cowboy hat jauntily placed on his head and the Beretta in his hand, he felt like some gunslinger in a Spaghetti Western. He felt ready to march down the streets and open fire. Whether he was the sheriff or the man in black, he did not know. _Eastwood or Van Cleef, the choice is yours ain't it?_

He had resumed hunting, same as before, now he found himself strolling around Mark Twain Road of Hillsborough's central town, general stores and local businesses as far as the eye could see, it seemed.

The hunting had been poor, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It seemed that people were hiding, laying low, staying out of sight. That would only add to the challenge of the hunt, and that much had appeal. As well, there were still ample opportunities for hunting.

He had been trying to keep as low a profile as possible, pressing himself against walls of buildings, duck-walking and in general staying crouched or prone when necessary. It seemed to be paying off, no one was shooting at him.

Pressing himself against the wall of an antiques shop, pistol in hand, he craned his neck around the wall. Movement off the edge of the street caught the boys eye, causing him to retreat his head in an effort to hide. Two figures, one after the other ducked behind the lone car. One seemed to possess a long-pipe looking thing, a rifle or a shotgun by the looks of it, the other didn't have any weapon at hand… Double-checking the magazine, Nick watched as one girl ran away from the car to the other side of the street and smiled. Sweet, take out the gunner then the runner will follow suit, excellent.

_Yep, definitely Van Cleef._

* * *

Three quick gunshots rattled the side of the car that Victoria hid behind, shattering both the windshield and one side window. Reflexively, Victoria cried out in fear and surprise and ducked down behind the car. The shooter was on the other side, that much was clear, but that was the only solace the girl had.

The shooter put two more shots into the side of the car, and at this Octavia's face grimaced slightly. Looking over to her traveling partner, Victoria could see the blank, yet lightly determined face of Octavia.

"I'll take him, just stay here!" Victoria yelled, Octavia's face looked somewhat hesitant, but Vicky flashed her a confident grin to assure her all would be alright. To this, Octavia gave an affirmative nod and drew out her trusty switchblade.

Somersaulting away from the car and making a mad dash for the nearest extra bit of cover while hearing bullets whiz by her like hornets and punch holes into nearby walls and windows, further adding speed to her sprint, her shotgun levying with each stride. She slid behind a mailbox and used it to balance the long barrel of her shotgun, she leveled off both barrels in quick succession, one missed entirely and turned the large storefront window of the antiques shop into a massive mosaic of tiny glass cubes, while the other once again missed, mostly.

A few pieces of buckshot grazed Nick's side, tearing a medium-sized hole in his parka and taking a decent amount of skin off, causing him to howl in agony. Seeing red, he fired off several more shots which caused some gray rings and chipped paint to appear on the blue mailbox, one shot found it's location in Vicky's shoulder, drawing a spray of blood and immense pain to appear, she yelled in pain as she slumped behind the mailbox, temporarily downed.

"Victoria!" Octavia shouted with the first conspicuously concerned face she would muster in the game. Then snarling at the gunman across the street, she then looked to the passenger side door of the car she was ducked behind. Thinking quickly, she balled her hand into a fist around her knife's handle and punched the door's side mirror as the girl summoned up all the strength she could. A heavy bit of metal, it simply swung about on its swiveling base. Punching it again, the girl caught it before it fell free. _A knife in one hand, a broken off side mirror in one hand, looks like you're ready to take on the world, aren't you?_

Meanwhile Vicky set into motion the painfully slow task of reloading the shotgun, Nick fired more sparingly upon both the car and the mailbox, alternating between targets until he paused in the assault.

He turned around to run behind another building to cover and reload, but Victoria stood up on wobbly legs, ready to level off another shot. Had Nick been facing Victoria, he would've died right then and there, instead the duffel bag strapped to his back received the shotguns deadly contents in full impetus. His backpack exploded in a spray of fabric, water and demolished MRE's. The boy spun all the way around on his feet in a disoriented manner from the blast, yet somehow never lost his feet. Looking back at his two attackers very briefly, he felt quite confused. He heard the second boom of the shotgun that barely missed him.

_What the fuck? What's going on?_

Nick autonomously readied another assault, firing off three more ineffective shots before his gun officially ran empty. _I believe he can reload faster than Victoria. If you want to do anything about this, you must do it now._

Jumping out from behind the car, Octavia wound her arm up and threw the broken side-mirror in a parabolic arc. The mirror bounced off Nick's head with an almost deafening _THOCK_, stunning him and sending him reeling. Rushing the distance between them with almost startling speed, Octavia simply and forcefully stabbed the blade of her butterfly knife into Nick's abdomen. It landed shallowly in, but was still enough to inflict great pain.

The boy's eyes registered nothing but surprise as a muted _WHOOF_ escaped his lips. In pure shock he swung his hand around and pistol-whipped Octavia weakly across the head, knocking her aside (and pulling the knife free with her). He seemed to have lost all interest in reloading his pistol and began backing down the street, one hand over his stomach that began to show red rather brightly.

"Wha-fuck?" he muttered simply, looking around in confusion.

Victoria had two more shell's in their chambers, though pain radiated from her shoulder, she wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Nick turned around to retreat, he was wounded and hurting like crazy and out of bullets. He needed to escape, at least for now. Firing the fifth shell, Victoria missed again, but the sixth one managed to turn the cowboy hat he was wearing into Swiss cheese as it got full of holes and flopped off of his head. An idle part of Nick's brain was grateful that his hat was the thing that got hole-punched to shit versus his face, but he still did feel a modicum of vitriol at this happenstance, things were not going according to plan goddamnit!

Octavia began to rise up from the ground like Frankenstein with a small bruise on the side of her gorgeous face, she glared at Nick with eyes completely devoid of emotion, the eyes of a true psychopath. They weren't crazy or energetic, or even particularly livid or manic... and that was what freaked out Nick the most.

She stirred to her feet and sprinted after Nick again, Nick didn't have much time to react, Octavia angled the blade out and made to stab Nick in the chest, and she succeeded.

Nick and Octavia tumbled to the ground together, the girl on top of the boy. As they impacted the sidewalk, the blade sank even further in. Nick gasped in shock at the impact of the knife and already felt as if he were dying. Octavia felt no remorse from securing her first kill, spill some blood to preserve her and Vicky's? No problem.

Octavia pulled out her switchblade and looked down at the spot where she stabbed Nick. He weakly looked at the same spot.

To the vast surprise of both of them, there was no blood. Not one single drop. In fact, Nick's shirt was still intact.

"What… the _fuck_?" Octavia muttered, she was not one who was fond of obscenities, but she was so flabbergasted that she couldn't help but let one slip out. Though Octavia had gotten Nick, she actually didn't pierce skin, or even his parka.

Neither heard the clanking sound that was made when the metal sank into metal. What really happened was quite miraculous in Nick's eyes, When Octavia stabbed Nick, she actually sunk the blade into his police parka's upper left quadrant, around where his left lung was. The knife had precisely gone into the parka's thick, shiny bronze constable badge.

Rather then penetrating Nick's chest cavity, she had only managed to poke a hole in the solid metal badge, Nick was perfectly alive, terrified out of his mind, confused, and in excruciating pain from his earlier injuries, but still very much alive; of course had the knife been several inches to the right or lower that might not have been the case.

Getting a remarkably smug look on his face, Nick with particularly glee and anger smashed the muzzle of his empty Beretta 92 into Octavia's temple similar to what she did earlier with the car mirror. She immediately toppled off of him with a horrible sensation of fiery pain and wooziness.

Nick scrambled to his feet and fled into the afternoon before Octavia could do anything more, he heard two more thundering blasts behind him, but still sprinted for all he was worth, drops of crimson blood staining the light gray sidewalk with red droplets in small sporadic bursts. _That's right! I'm a God! Man, this thing actually turned out to be a god-send! Though I should remember to come back and pick up the cowboy hat._

As Nick took off in a plodding run, his cocky smirk faulting from pain shooting from his torso, Victoria nearly completely forgot about Nick and immediately went to Octavia's aid. That _thock _noise that was made when Nick pistol-whipped Tavi was almost too much for her to bear.

"Holy shit! Tavi!" Victoria cried, "I'm coming, are you okay?!" She worriedly asked as she got up to Octavia and knelt at her level.

"Oh my god, holy shit! Are you alright?"

"Y-yeah, I'm quite fine." Octavia weakly replied as she sat upright and nursed the strike with her hand, it hurt like a motherfuc… a lot, but hoped that she didn't suffer from hemorrhaging or anything serious, in all truth, both she and Vicky were amazed that Octavia hadn't been knocked out cold.

"How about you? That gunshot wound look's quite gruesome." Octavia remarked, equally worried for her friend's well-being.

"Nah, it's nothing." Vicky assured, "Back to you. Are you sure? That strike looked wicked nasty." Vicky said worriedly as she wrapped her arm around her smarting friend.

"Quite certain," Octavia said shakily as she rose to her feet, leaning on Victoria's shoulder for support. "How do I look?" Octavia nonchalantly asked.

As Vicky examined Octavia's face, aside from the small bruise and the scrape that drew some blood…Vicky was tempted to say 'like shit', but thinking better she realized that Octavia still looked nice, not as nice as earlier obviously, but still hot.

"Well, could be better. But still doable." Victoria answered with an awkward smile on her lips.

Octavia gave a light smirk of her own, Victoria then spontaneously embraced her tightly, which admittedly took Octavia off guard.

She struggled a little bit from receiving such a tight hug without bracing herself. Vicky continued to squeeze with her shotgun at their feet, a warm smile plastered on her face.

"Vic-Victoria? What are you doing?" Octavia asked uneasily, "Somebody could be watching."

"I don't care, let 'em." Vicky gushed, completely contrary to how she normally behaved. For a few seconds Octavia tried fighting it, but with her being wiry and her companion and roommate being very strong for a girl of her stature she eventually requited the hug. They stood there in each others arms for a few more moments before eventually letting go.

"That, that felt good." Vicky commented.

"I concur." Octavia agreed.

They then continued on their walk, a modicum of sentiment in both of their irises but ignoring it. They both were now officially hunting for fellow contestants again, as well as conflicting internally on what to do from this point.

Octavia began thinking of people who could possibly prove to be a threat to her and Victoria, several names came to mind…well, everyone was a threat, but, some certainly more then others. _Ms. Song, that servile lout that shot Victoria and attacked us, Mr. Vrett, Abigail, Ms. Henriksen, Mr. Sullivan…who knows whom else, all must fall._

Victoria wanted a viable course of action, she began thinking to any leads to other contestants. There were certain to be some in the near vicinity, it would make sense, a metropolitan area with a plethora of assorted buildings and viands at disposal. But according to the lack of acoustic signatures and neither nigh or tail of anyone besides that geek earlier, nothing.

She began absent-mindedly nursing her wounded shoulder, it stung like a bitch and could possibly paralyze that arm in it's entirety and spread an aggressive infection like sepsis or some shit if left untreated, but hopefully she wouldn't have to worry about it for a while, besides…the pain would have to assuage at some point…right?

Octavia and Vicky continued to stroll in morbid harmony, to any outside observer not aware of the Battle Royale's disposition, they would've seemed like completely innocent (if not bi-curious) teenage girls, if not interestingly dressed. Not out for the lives of all forty-one remaining fellow adolescents on Weber's Island.

Vicky pushed her tinted shades up her nose into place and brushed some of her loose, electric-blue hair out of her face while Octavia continued to walk using Vicky as a crutch. Silence reigned as Vicky took inventory of her remaining shells when suddenly Octavia remembered something. Besides meeting each other in the parking lot of the Zen Hotel in the earliest hours of the game, the first people they encountered were Flora and a bunch of dim-witted church goers, naïve enough to follow her into the cathedral with open arms and empty heads. Would they. Could they? Maybe…

"Hey, Victoria, I believe I know somewhere we should go." Octavia suggested.

"Huh?" Victoria mumbled, lost in her thoughts, "What do you mean Tavi?"

Octavia was internally irked by that nickname, but let it slide. Instead, she spoke her idea. "I was thinking. Remember Flora doting earlier?"

"Yeah, why?" Victoria said, not quite sure where her friend was going.

"Well, you don't suppose she's still there, do you?" Octavia asked while looking curiously at her friend.

Vicky had stopped walking at this point and stood still in contemplation, a twinkle in her eyes appeared as a dangerous grin began to creep on her tan-skinned face.

"Holy shit. Tavi, you're a genius!" Vicky chirped.

"Why than-" Octavia's sentence was cut off by another tight embrace from Victoria. Cutting out the mushy-gush, she then retrieved her map from her pack and looked for the cathedral, after locating it with assistance from Tavi, she quickly took out a pen and marked it out with a perspicuous 'X', X marks the spot.

"Alright, Hey Ho, let's go!" Vicky said in a sing-song manner, much to the confusion of Octavia.

"What's that?" She asked.

"Nothing, just a classical reference." Victoria replied. "But enough of that, let's get this show on the road!"

With a twitch of the nose, Octavia nodded in agreement and the two deadly girls ran off down Mark Twain Road, in search of the cathedral were hopefully the two opportunists could score some kills, maybe pick off some people along the way.

* * *

Though, neither had seen or heard the boy who had watched their battle with Nick. In the quiet antique shop that had had it's storefront window torn asunder by buckshot, lied Joel Hellmuth a.k.a. Boy #14 in wait.

After Mickey Chiang's (Boy #4) demise, Joel had sought shelter, being that Hillsborough's downtown area was near the trailer park, he had figured that would've been a good place to start looking for a new shelter. He did his best to avoid places that were well lit, had food or other comforts of 20th and 21st century modernization, or seemed particularly attractive.

He had found it as the fourth hour of the game rolled to an end, his arms were aching from almost maliciously dragging along the deceased Mickey's fire axe, he was wondering just how long it would be before he found a place to rest his head, the mélange of emotions plaguing his mind and threatening to drive him insane was getting really painful as well as all of the walking around, looking to a heat-sensing camera placed in a nearby tree, he briefly wondered if his parents were watching him.

He didn't have to look much longer, after three hours of looking, he found one of the most banal looking buildings to hide. On the outside, the antiquities shop was just a regular brick and mortar one-story building with a layer of mustard yellow plaster rolled over it, it was quite ugly looking and the color schematics were so pigmented that even a person with no sense of aesthetic designing such as himself thought it looked piss poor.

But figuring that no one else would want to go inside a building this lack-luster, he had pushed the wooden chestnut door in and had stayed stationary since.

He had seen the skirmish with Walter Peterson (Boy #3) and Pamela Ridley (Girl #18) four hours earlier, and their fleeing of the scene. Then just now with Nick, Vicky and Octavia. The shotgun blast that destroyed the shop window and let the breeze roll in caused some of the glass to shower him like flying daggers and give a shallow cut on his cheek, stung a bit. But he wouldn't _dare _make noise that could've alerted any of the three of them.

For that he was thankful; really truly with his entire heart, he had no intentions whatsoever of meeting anybody else in the game. He was perfectly content to remain isolated in this temporary haven, secluded from all the murder and conflict that was raging on outside. Even if it involved those he would have recognized as friends in school.

_Well... maybe with one exception_, Joel thought with muted hope, _but that's not gonna happen, is it?_

In the same place at the back of his mind where he stored thoughts he refused to acknowledge, Joel knew and acknowledged the fact that sooner or later he would die. Even if he wouldn't be murdered by say, some opportunistic incognito walking in and executing him in some horrible, unpredictable method, he would be dead once the sixty-nine hours had passed (_only fifty-seven left now_) and all zones outside from the grid became danger zones. A series of quick beeps, then his collar would detonate and that'd be it, wouldn't it? There was simply no other way that he could have survived. Death was a contingency whichever angle he tried looking at it, no other possible outcome for poor ol' Joel.

_It doesn't have to be_, a tiny voice spoke up. Except yes, it did have to be, because quite simply Joel could not kill. Well, he could not kill again. Not only was he too weak, the thing with Mickey was just pure luck, nothing but fortuitous happenstance had spared Joel's life and instead taken Mickey's; had the TV not been there, Mickey would've killed him without a doubt. He was positive he could not contend that with any other more aggressive kids. Walter, Trixie, and Toby were some names that quickly came to mind. _Not to mention that clusterfuck out there that gave you this cut._

In the end he had decided safety was the main issue at hand. As long as he remained hidden, he was safe. As long as he was safe... he would be alive, right? For the time being, at least, that looked to be true. If things didn't change in the next two days, he would be secure here in his lonesome until T minus three hours.

But was this really how he wanted his eventual death to be? Alone and surrounded by the assorted crap that some geezer from a generation before his own collected over a lifetime. No, that was definitely not a favorable way to go. But it looked like the best choice he had at the moment, unless he wanted to throw himself out into that _clusterfuck_ outside. And no way, that's not gonna happen, definitely absolutely not, no sir. There were killers out there, the announcements had made that clear. Seven deaths in only twelve hours, probably more by now. Seven people were dead, and if the report could be trusted, doing the math and accounting which people were accredited with what...that meant that at least...six people were killers out there (_well, including yourself, but that was self-defense, I'm no killer_). Abigail, _not me_, Trixie, Nick, some girl he couldn't remember, then Toby. Checking the list, he noted Judith was probably the girl he was thinking of just before Toby. _Shit man, even Derpy of all people is playing the game...am I the only person who has moral qualms about playing, the lone abstainer out of his forty-nine other peers?_

Anyhow, the announcements gave him far more of an indication that leaving his sanctuary wasn't just a bad idea, it was tantamount to suicide. His paranoia and desire to stay alive (despite how little time now that could actually be spent living) made him recognize the fact that there were dangerous people out there, people who couldn't be trusted and invited in. Hell, never in a million years would he have imagined Abigail or Vicky (Octavia was far more plausible however) as killers, but there they were gunning down innocent people. Undoubtedly. Toby too was a major shocker, he always seemed so civil and kind to others, but he still murdered Laurel and Anthony in cold blood.

Laurel, that was the girl through sheer random allocation, chalked up to pure happenstance, was the girl that would share his number. #14; and already she was killed by the boy she seemed to really like, and apparently died of drowning…that's love for ya, can be a real killer, a lesson Laurel seemed to find out in the worst way possible. That's really sad, isn't it? Joel himself wondered if that's what Logan will do to Brianna, or if what she'll do to him if they somehow meet in here, or what she would do to Joel himself.

Sighing and stuffing the list back into his pack, he noticed the mobile phone sitting in between a water bottle and the ungainly fire axe. Out of habit he flipped it open. _No messages. Of course. Who'd want to spend their last moments with you anyway?_

With nothing better to do, he clicked into the contact list and began scrolling through the names, feeling that familiar _thump_ as a particular name went past. But there was no point in messaging anybody else, and certainly no point in messaging _him_. Oh no, that would be plain pointless.

In despair, he tossed the phone away. Not too roughly, he may have been angry and pent-up with anxiety to the point where he was on the verge of a panic attack, but not stupid either. He wouldn't dare break the phone in case he needed it later on, but all the same he had to let out some of the pent-up frustration. It was a hopeless situation. So sue him if he was trying to find some... he didn't even know what.

"Jesus, fuck, this is just, fuck, fuck, so fucked up..." he choked out, feeling close to tears as he tried to drown out everything else.

Somehow, he had a feeling everything would be better (_no way as good as it once had been but maybe at least a slight bit better?_) if he had somebody here with him. A friend, an acquaintance, as long as it was somebody he could talk to about things, help get some stuff off his chest, maybe relieve his guilt about the Mickey incident, someone he could explicitly trust and clear out all of the thoughts swirling in his brain right now. And he could do the same for whomever enter his domicile that could be trusted...then it would all be fine. _As long as they don't try to cut your head off, that's a double-edged sword, isn't it? Your best friend could very well be your worst enemy right now. Or dead, she could already be dead. God knows..._

This couldn't be the way it had to end. Joel was determined not to let it happen, at least. It was bad enough that they were all caught up in this deathmatch. Unlike his pal Vikram (Boy #15), whom was complacent enough to spend the rest of his lowly, unremarkable existence isolated from everybody else in some forsaken locale, if Joel had to spend the rest of his life trapped voluntarily in this mish-mash with no hope of any other human contact... that would be hell.

Joel began to pace. The shop wasn't particularly spacious, but it had enough room for him to go several steps either way before having to turn or double around. While walking around, he kept his thoughts occupied on what it was that he planned to do next. The safe decision would be to remain alone in this store. If by some miracle somebody found him, it wouldn't be difficult to dispatch them with his axe, or one of the antique crossbows or flintlock pistols stored behind locked glass in the store. This strategy would almost certainly ensure his survival until the sixty-ninth hour of the game, and after that he would be dead. At this point, Joel thought he could even accept that. _If you're meant to die... at least you're aware three days in advance._

But then came a different thought. So what if he had a couple dozen extra hours to live, could he really savor that if he spent those hours in fearful isolation? That didn't sound a fairly decent end to him. A small part of his mind told him that perhaps he should take his chances outside. On the one hand, it could spell an early end, but on the other it also gave him that two percent chance to live. It gave him the chance to find a friend, or just anybody to talk to, maybe even _her_. Now that he had the weaponry, the crossbows and pistols and even a few blades on his side, perhaps he could even save a few lives out there. He could be a hero...

_Who do you think you're kidding_, the more rational part of his mind spoke, _you're no hero. Never have been, and never will be. You're nothing but a useless, scanty fuck-up that was the byproduct of a drunken fling in an alleyway._

"No," he spoke, feeling considerably more determined as he gripped the fire axe tight, "I have a chance, I've got to."

It felt somewhat silly speaking aloud to himself, but it did not negate that he felt like he believed those words a slight bit more. He had a chance out there, minuscule as it was, and if he played it smart and had luck on his side, he could end up being a hero. He could end up saving lives, he could even end up... _surviving_. He had that much to hope for. And hope was good, because the moment he lost hope, it would all be over. Not just for him, but for everybody else as well.

"I swear," he said, "I'll make a difference. I will, I'll go out there and make a difference. I swear I will."


	21. Hour 12, Pt 2: 43 Contestants Remaining

Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5 was dying, at least that was what he was certain of. The trees circled around him as he stumbled through the woods, disorienting him in a wave and pulling him closer and closer to the ground. He tried to fight it, but in the end, it was like trying to crawl out of his own coffin. He could pound on the lid all he wanted but it wasn't going to change the fact that he was never going to get back up. The gravedigger would have been pleased.

Ambling along, he felt like he was being repeatedly punched in the gut by an unseen force; his body perpetually lurched forward like a hunchback as he sauntered to an unknown finish line. The exertion was relentless, crawling up to his neck and choking the very life out of him. Blood sputtered out of the corner of his mouth as his hands trembled on the slit envelope of his throat. J_ust keep walking, walking means you're still capable, being capable means you're still alive, being alive means breathing and blood flowing where it's supposed to..._

In that cathedral with Flora was like heaven, to think such an alluringly beautiful chick with such…fuckable assets seemed to have taken such a liking to an awkward and geeky boy such as himself, sure in the mirror he had a somewhat handsome face, but that was just about it. He didn't know what he had right there, well… until, so cliché, he lost it.

Well, more appropriately he had his neck slit and the immediate pain was so excruciating it caused him to black out for a few seconds. After stirring awake from a world of dark and misery, he just went into survival mode, he had no idea where he was and it was just his prerogative to find help and fast.

Jerry had quite a miraculous bit of luck, when Mathias slit his neck, he had done so very unprofessionally, not thinking to slice deep enough. That meant not only were the carotid artery and jugular vein both left intact, but the trachea as well; from both angles his life had been spared and longevity was a given. It was still very bloody and he made quite a mess sure, but hey, that was the janitor's concern (more like posthumous cleaning crew). He was hurting like fuck and disoriented, but on the bright side the bleeding had ceased, he still thought it would be prosaic to say that he would still need some first aid though. Right now would be preferable.

His mind went back and forth to the people he had seen in the game, astonishingly after waking up from unconsciousness, all of his memories had remained perfectly intact and without hamper, just waiting for Jerry to rediscover them. _Mitsumi, then Carlos and Bonnie… Then, god, who was it? There were all those guys in the church with Flora…That's it._

He continued to dazedly trudge through the wet meadow near the rocky cliffs to the right of him, and the looming forest to the left of him.

As he continued to navigate through the moist grasslands, wet from morning dew, he eventually caught sight of a large red barn with a rickety windmill in front of it, how had he not noticed before? There was a second barn about a football field's distance away from it, but it was far drearier looking and Jerry for one did not want to be inside that portentous settlement.

Upon getting closer, he heard someone calling for him, "Oh my gosh! Jerry, over here!"

A girl with a metal collar fastened around her neck jumped up and down excitedly like she was dancing on hot coals. Her wan face, along with her slightly curved cheeks instantly made Jerry see who it was.

"We found tons of medicine here!" the girl called. "There's even a kitchen on the side; I think the farmer lived here! We set up a clinic! Come over here! Some other people are already here!"

Glancing skeptically, he limped closer to the structure until he was in front of the entrance.

"Jerry!" Lyra Archer a.k.a. Girl #25 screamed breathlessly. "It's me, Lyra! Bonnie is inside! You aren't playing the game hopefully, right?"

For a second, Jerry couldn't answer, his throat was flaring up again. After coughing out some obstruction mixed with blood, he spoke in a raspy, scratched voice, "No, I'm not." He said to the girl as best a boy with a damaged neck could. For some inexplicable reason the parlous agony he was in, and the articulation defects he presumed to have accompanied his gashed throat seemed to have vanished along with the soporific cross-breeze that cascaded by the pair. Don't get him wrong, he was still in pain, just enough of a reprieve from the fire to have a modicum of aplomb about him.

"Oh thank God, but holy heck what's became of your neck?" Lyra asked with fright as she saw the faded red around his throat emerging from the gash, the copious amount of blood staining his shirt was also a good clue as to what happened.

Jerry sputtered some more and waved his hands before himself, trying to fetch the gumption to speak.

"Uh, it's, nothing some band-aid's won't fix," He tried to plead with a pained chortle, "Say, can I come in?" he asked.

"Oh, of course Jerry! Come right in!" Lyra chirped. "Good lord though."

With her friendly invitation, she walked Jerry away from the thick grass into the red barn, his nose smelt multiple scents that were superimposed on one another, the smell of hay and horses, a stench that he didn't favor (Lyra being an equine lover relished the smell), freshly baked bread, and the faint smell of freshly smoked marijuana. Listening to his ears, he picked up on the muffled sound of acoustic guitar coming from somewhere within the barn, it sounded good, whatever it was.

As they walked in through the stable area of the barn, Lyra flashed Jerry a friendly smile as she closed the door. Peering through the crooked boards of the wall, he could see a small glimpse of Bonnie Navarro a.k.a. Girl #6 and Avery Beaumont a.k.a. Girl #17 busily preparing food in the kitchen as they giggled like they were in cooking class; it was almost like they didn't even care they were dying in three days.

"Everyone's resting in that room", Lyra said, pointing at a small, peeling door adjacent from the kitchen. "We don't spend a lot of time in the big room of the barn, but until we find a way to get off this island, there's really nothing to do".

"You don't say?" Jerry said. "Say, who else is here?" He asked, still covering his wound with his hand.

"Umm, well we've got Avery and Bon Bon in the kitchen helping bake some bread for later, we've got Brayden and Morgan in the room I pointed out, as well as Nathan Blue." Lyra explained lightly but as she thought of the last person, she grimaced a little, "Oh, and Spencer Ryan. He came in here looking like he got his face bashed against a brick wall, a distinct possibility thinking about it. He looked far worse then you did," she said gloomily, but catching what she said she amended with, "No offense."

"None taken, so how is Spence now?" Jerry asked curiously.

"He's better, we just cleaned him up as best as we could, disinfected some of his cuts and scrapes, and just bandaged up his face...it wasn't too difficult."

Jerry stared. "Do you have any plans to get off?"

Before she could answer, Lyra's name was called from the kitchen, causing her to hurry off with a hasty goodbye and a small smile that she flashed. Closing his eyes, knowing that Lyra and her friends had no clue how to take care of themselves, Jerry turned around and went through the aforementioned door with the acoustic music still strumming.

His neck had stopped hurting and bleeding, there probably wasn't such an immense need for first aid anyways, though he may need to get his hands on some painkillers and disinfectants. And bandages obviously.

Walking into the room, immediately his nostrils were occupied with the strong stench of pot, it was acrid and pervasive. It must be Brayden.

There were makeshift cot's made from hay-bales and blankets placed all around the room. Aside from the noon sun, the room had only one viable light source, which was a hanging lightbulb that swayed from the ceiling.

Instantly Jerry spotted Brayden Dillinger (Boy #17) strumming on an acoustic guitar and singing a 60's song to the captive audience of Morgan Zachary (who also happened to have a Luger tucked into a holster around her waist) (Girl #21), Spencer Ryan (Boy #10), and the less than hospitable Nathan Blue (Boy #8).

Spencer's had a nearly comical amount of bandages and athletic tape covering his face, clearly while it was not nearly as bloodied as earlier, it still looked like hell (considering how his eyes and noses seemed to have traded places). If he looked this bad now after some convalescence and sprucing, Jerry didn't even want to imagine what he looked like earlier. It scared Jerry to the core to try and conceive who, or perhaps what could have such a heinous thing to the star athlete.

Nathan was hunched out on a bale of hay with two layers of blankets keeping him from contacting the hay. He looked around suspiciously and rather upset at being here, even if he didn't like his current company, whatever the reasons for his discrepancy he had still decided it was a better idea to stay then go outside. So rather then pissing off the animals, he decided it was best to shut his trap and at least try to look not miserable. Though the heavy stench of that foul and odious marijuana was really driving him mad. He didn't give his newly arrived lodger more than a passing glance as he pretended to have his face buried in a voluminous book forty years younger than his home state.

As the music stopped upon Jerry's entrance, all eyes were on him. Brayden's glassy eyes surveyed Jerry and the rest of the teens looked up with various expressions at the Vietnamese boy until Brayden piped up.

"Hey, what's up?" He asked politely, if not with something a of a stoner's slur.

"Oh, umm, not much. Whatcha got here?" Jerry replied.

"Oh, just smoked some bud, playing some Traffic, ate some sandwich's courtesy of Lyra and Bonnie. Want some?" he offered, sliding a paper plate with half of a ham sandwich on it. He didn't hesitate with the mayo it seemed.

Thinking of the utterly banal MRE's in his bag, and likely everyone else's, he thought it was a good idea.

"Sure, thank you Brayden." Jerry said enthusiastically (still with a croaky voice) as he rushed by Brayden's side on a large patchwork quilt and gratefully took a bite out of the food.

The rest of the group began staring at the useless neck-mouth that moved every time Jerry took a bite with his real one, it was quite repulsive. The others tried to ignore it best as they could, but it didn't hold out for long.

"What is that red mark on your neck?" Brayden asked rather calmly.

"Du-, wh-t the heel's up?" Spencer slurred as best as a boy missing a tongue could.

"Damn man," Morgan remarked, addressing the elephant in the room, "What the hell happened to you?"

Jerry stopped chewing and swallowed a bite of his sandwich, "Oh, um. Well I got my throat slit." He answered.

Everyone looked at him absolutely flabbergasted, even Nathan who didn't at all seem interested in anything about everyone around him, was awestruck.

"No way!" Brayden proclaimed, his guitar set aside completely, "How are you still alive? Are you a zombie?"

Jerry chuckled weakly, "No, I'm alive. I guess it was just a miracle, you know?"

Everyone still could hardly believe their ears, how the fuck did someone survive having their neck incised? Wasn't that always immediate death, or at least a mortal wound?

Before anyone else could inquire further on the matter, Jerry spoke more, "So yeah, I know it was incredibly lucky. But, before I forget, does anyone have Mitsumi Sato's or Flora Sharpe's phone numbers?" He asked with a light blush on his sun burned face.

It took several succinct moments for those around Jerry to fathom how he was still breathing and talking, but once the shock of being faced with a survivor of what was considered to always be a mortal wound, the others slowly calmed down and went about with whatever mundane task they were faced with prior.

Spencer rolled onto his side and groaned, he was still smarting something fierce as he tried to lull himself into a state of slumber. Nathan resumed reading his copy of Alexandre Dumas 'The Count of Monte Cristo' that was among his personal effects left in his duffel bag, burying his head in the voluminous pages. Morgan and Brayden shrugged their shoulders; the latter began to idly play the melody to a classic Joe Walsh song he didn't know the lyrics to.

Jerry grunted wetly, until he remembered that he still had Mitsumi's number thanks to Flora earlier. Taking out his phone and calling, once again found her not answering and hung up, frustrated as ever. A short, albeit palpably awkward, time later, Brayden decided to say something.

"Why do you want to call Mitsumi?" He asked while now tuning his instrument. "I don't recall you two seeing each other before this."

Brayden set his six-string down again and proceeded to produce a joint and a lighter from his jean pocket, Morgan looked on with worried eyes, more then a bit concerned with the amount of pot her boyfriend had been smoking. _Jesus, that's the third joint in two hours. _But with curiosity conquering over concern with Brayden's drug habits, she didn't say anything.

Jerry meanwhile contemplated telling them of her bigger picture escape plan, but thought better of it, he had seen how she scowled when he told Carlos as they were being apprehended, that clearly ended in disaster.

"It's nothing, just ignore it." Jerry said.

"Eh, okay, suit yourself." Brayden replied as he lit the joint, brought to his mouth, inhaled then took a drag off of the joint in a puff of kush smoke in a practiced maneuver. He performed a classic stoner trick that allowed him to exhale rings of smoke like a chimney.

Jerry twiddled his fingers while Brayden continued to get as high as a kite and with surprising fluidity played a personal favorite of his from the age the Counter-Culture movement.

"_Dear Mr. Fantasy,"_ he sang, _"play us a tune, something to make us all happy; do anything, take us out of this gloom, sing a song, play guitar, make it snappy..."_

As he continued to drone on in his drug-induced bliss, Lyra Archer suddenly appeared through the door with a platter of sandwiches.

"There's turkey, tomato, lettuce, and honey mustard." Lyra said, all in one breathe. "The wheat bread is hand-baked; Bonnie and Avery rolled the dough themselves! Dig in!" she twittered happily. She set down the platter on Brayden's patch quilt and left the room to her own devices. Brayden stopped the music to stuff his face, he had a strong case of the munchies after all.

Jerry sighed and quickly took one from the platter and chomped down on it, it was delectable, but more pressing issues were at hand.

According to the latest announcement's, both Mitsumi and Flora were still alive, which was great. But he still was scared for their well-being, he had no idea what their situation was. That was probably the scariest thing about it, not knowing. As a human he was a creature that relied profoundly on analyzing and cognition, and being out there without a clue on something…wasn't it Frank Herbert who said "Fear is the mind-killer." Then something about how fear is like a miniature death or something like that. Well, he is right, that bit of logic applied to everything about this program, except that he was likely to die unless he found Mitsumi… but that would have to wait, she wasn't answering her phone and he did want some bandaging for his wound.

Spotting a jam-packed stack of folders set on a nearby stool, Jerry reached for one of them idly and quickly examined the contents of the file packet. It was natural of course to be compelled to reach for something, packets of files on brand new crisp printer paper, seemed reflexive to him. What he found were a giant ream of papers with paragraphs of data, dates, descriptions and photographs that seemed extraordinarily familiar. This was just on the first page.

The photograph depicted an aggressive looking dark-skinned boy that looked at the camera with a scowl. The boy had a tacky looking buzz-cut and was sporting a biker's leather jacket, upon further inspection Jerry grasped who this picture was of. It was Walter Peterson a.k.a. Boy #3. His eyes widened at the realization and the cryptic letters below came together.

* * *

_Boy #3—Peterson, Walter:_

_Born: November 6__th__, 1990; Cold Rivers, Washington_

_Looks: African-American, thinning hair-line, brown eyes_

_Height: 5, 11_

_Weight: 149 Pounds_

_Designated weapon: Ice pick_

_Pertinent background: Subject has formal relations with Beryl Puckett (ref. Girl #19). Subject has tendencies towards angry outbursts and violent retaliation, doesn't appear to learn from his mistakes. Subject is a known narcotics dealer and local delinquent, subject is leader of an organization formed with Rodney Woodrow (ref. Boy #22), Mickey Chiang (ref. Boy #4), Anthony Rojas (ref. Boy #19) and earlier mentioned Beryl. Subject also has known abuse issues with his father. Subject appears to be physically strong and is a natural leader, however due to impatience and admitted low-level intelligence isn't ubiquitously charismatic._

_Conclusions: Subject is a likely winner, given his minimal amount of empathy and physically strong stature paired with the will to play. Unless of course his impetuous nature causes him to do something brash that may ultimately eliminate him from the competition._

* * *

Jerry opened his mouth in shock.

"They're…they're analyzing our abilities?" he said to no one. He reread Walter's file and glanced at the pages following it –medical files, family tree, a rap sheet (a rather extensive component of his folder). Jerry sputtered, but this time it wasn't from exhaustion or fear or hunger or anything else but pure shock.

"Well what the fuck else did you expect?" Morgan Zachary snapped. "They're the overarching government masters, it figures they'd pull this shit, they've done it for almost every season."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Jerry asked with an iota of hurt and confusion.

"Well, for the majority of the Battle Royale's existence, one lucky-or unlucky depending on how you look at it—contestant would be assigned the official folder stack about all of the fellow competitors, themselves included." Morgan plainly explained.

"So, who got it?" Jerry clucked out, deciding that was the only proper thing to say. "Do you know?"

"It was Lyra's weapon." Morgan answered. "She left it in here for us to read like literature in a public fucking library," she continued, "apparently she had no problem with letting potential murderers get the inside out about everyone on the island, herself not included…I checked the stack, her file and Bonnie's were gone."

Lyra's weapon had turned out to be a packet of files.

At first she had deemed it as another sick joke by the government. However, the more she looked into it, she realized that it was actually a true weapon, perhaps even more effective than her partner's weapon(_s_).

They were official game files of every student in the competition. From Luke Donahue a.k.a. Boy #1, to Lyra herself (Girl #25), it told the history, attributes, weaknesses, and strengths of every valid player in the competition, along with some miscellaneous information that left Lyra (and others who partook in exploring it's contents) speechless.

"Lemme tell ya though, Lyra might be naive, perhaps even just flatout dumb as hell, but she's about the cheeriest, friendliest girl under the sun i tell you what." Morgan said in a quick diatribe before pulling a random file out of the mountain of paper.

"Did you know David Langston took steroids?" Morgan asked rhetorically, knowing that Jerry most likely didn't know that as she folded her choice open.

"Or that apparently Andre Sullivan got a girl from Italy pregnant? I sure feel a fuck of a lot sorry for the poor girl that got a bun put in her oven by that lard ass." Morgan bantered.

"Doesn't it seem just a little bit morally wrong to read about someone's life and treat it so lightly?" Jerry asked, "Doesn't seem so fun if it were happening to you."

Morgan shrugged, "Eh, I already read my file, it said I just went Goth for attention and that I'm really insecure on the inside." Morgan recited with a glow in her eyes, she chuckled "Load of crap."

"Pfft, that's nothing." Brayden interjected, "my file told me I was _addicted _to good 'ol Mary J. Can you believe that?" Said just as Brayden took another drag off of his marijuana cigarette.

"Don't you feel wrong looking at this?" Jerry asked. "Do you really have fun looking at everyone's lives and reading anything you think is interesting?"

Morgan grinned sarcastically and pushed some braided strains of her hair out of the way, "But of course!"

"Yeah, lighten up man." Brayden said, his bloodshot eyes tightly closed, "It's not like any of us are going to live long enough to spread rumors about this crap anyways."

"Eh, I guess you're right." Jerry admitted. _I wonder…would it be so bad to look at Flora or Mitsumi's file…or even my own…_

Brayden churned out harmonics once more, producing more music as his eyes sank heavily on his greasy face.

Relieved that he wasn't going to be eliminated anytime soon, Jerry's weary eyes zoomed away from Brayden, before suddenly becoming drawn to the Luger pistol stuffed into a leather holster by Morgan's waist. He suddenly grew enchanted by the sight of the unusual looking pistol, his gaze seemingly fixated on it as if he had never seen it in his life.

"Hey Morgan," he said raspily, gaining her attention as she piqued her head up, "Is that your weapon?"

She shook her head. "Nah. It was Brayden's. Why are you even asking when you could just read the files over there?"

"I'd prefer not to." Jerry answered, "Back to the topic at hand, what did you actually get?"

Before Morgan could answer, Brayden entered in with "A computer keyboard," to which Morgan corroborated with a solemn nod.

"Yeah, lucky me, huh?" Morgan sarcastically grimaced, a bitter rictus all over her dark face.

"Yeah...shit sorry about that...I don't want to make you feel bad, but I got a machine gun," Jerry admitted, "But before you ask any questions, I lost it along the way..." He amended as more than a few anxious gazes were directed at him (even the apathetic Nathan looked his way).

"What? How? What the fuck is wrong with you losing something like that." Morgan chastised with a raising of her arms.

"Shit happens, I thought I said no questions." Jerry shot back in his own defense.

Spencer who seemed to sympathize and wanted to quell any potential for disputes said, as slowly and in as discernible a manner he could (quite the challenge considering how battered he was as well as a partially snipped tongue) "I g'th a 'ewie n've."

Jerry, Morgan and Brayden looked at Spencer with confusion trying to decipher his gross slurring until the dots managed to connect within Brayden's mind, "I think he said he got a knife of some kind..." Spencer nodded his head gratefully that someone could translate his incoherent speech, "You still have it on you?" To which Spencer shook his head grimly. He wanted to tell the other's about the psychotic bitch who fucked him up and robbed him of his weapon, but then bit down that urge once he realized doing so would reveal to the group that he instigated the fight.

"Hmm, that sucks...What about you, Nate?"

Nathan, swiping his blonde mane to the side, glanced up from the boring book like he had been disrupted in the middle of important business. "_What_?"

"Your weapon, you little shit! What was it?"

Nathan, slightly embarrassed (and harried by the obscenity), glanced down at the ground as his face turned red like a turnip. "A stapler…".

Morgan, slightly amused by Nathan's answer, nodded with a barely suppressed chuckle.

Just as the weapons of the quintuplet of teens within the room had been shared, Lyra strolled back into the room carrying a first aid kit in one hand, and a sowing kit in the other, and a bright smile that showed her flawlessly white teeth, almost like she belonged in a toothpaste commercial. _Wait, that's Nicole's gig._

"Okay Jerry, I'm really sorry I didn't get to this sooner. But, are you ready for treatment?" she asked.

In all truth, aside from the sticky congealed blood on his neck and the tentativeness of the wound, Jerry really hadn't pondered over it much, but figuring no harm would come out of extra insurance, he shrugged his shoulders and put on the smile he would likely use to convince a judge.

"Sure, let's do this." Jerry agreed, "I mean, the treatment, not sex." He chortled afterwards. Even if the joke was immature and rather out of context, Lyra still couldn't help but giggle lightly, that got Jerry to smile even more.

"Ugh, that's so funny," She quipped sarcastically with a jocose shaking of her head, "Alright then Mr. Tran, follow me." Lyra grinned as she walked out of the room like a fox, allowing Jerry to follow her for his operation. He was already starting to forget about Mitsumi and Flora.

As Jerry followed Lyra for impromptu surgery on his neck by Lyra the unofficial field medic of the game, Bonnie was in the kitchen, not making bread like she was earlier, but coming to grips with something. Avery had gone to use the restroom, leaving Bonnie alone with finally some time to think.

She had rummaged through the cupboards of the kitchen and found some…_things_. These _things _had given her quite a devious idea, a down right reprehensible one; even Bonnie herself had to admit that. Maybe she was turning into a monster at this point, but come hell or high water she would be a monster that would win this game...chhh, yeah. Keep telling yourself that...

Compartmentalizing her thoughts back together in some sort of cohesive exemplar, she realized that this idea of hers needed perfect execution and clandestine delivery, however, conceiving this idea had made her ultra paranoid, to the point that she needed to hide the contents unless she was absolutely positive she was alone. She nearly had a panic attack when Spencer walked by to go to the other room to nap, or when Lyra had come on in to help make and deliver the sandwiches. Thinking on it now, maybe she should have done it then, it would've gotten it out of the way and wouldn't have given her much time to feel too guilty about what she _wanted _to do.

But no, she chickened out and was still mulling over it. If it had been up to her personally, her being of the competitive and volatile type, she likely would've been out in the battlefield setting fire to her fellow schoolmate's turned opposing warriors. From a weapons standpoint she was very well off, she mused over the instruction video shown to them prior to the game's beginning.

What did it say? "Everyone will get a weapon, but one super lucky person will get two?" Something like that. Well, take a wild guess whom that 'super lucky' person was.

Well, it was Bonnie Navarro, in addition to the blistering hot firework launcher (actuality it was a flare gun, looked like a toy pistol, except far more lethal), she also received in her pack a trusty, handy machete! An iconic blade that could sever limbs and heads with little resistance, from the hands of Jason Voorhees to Columbian drug cartel assassins, the iconic Latin American cutting tool was as prevalent and practical as it was deadly.

But no, in the barn with her girlfriend Lyra, she couldn't take such a direct approach. In addition that Avery and Brayden had both been assigned pistols, and the announcements would blow her cover. Plus what would Lyra think? Yeah, taking on everyone in the barn with brute force was not a viable option. She had considered doing what she did upon her release, blinding people with the flare and striking with her machete while they were helpless in a two-part combo-strike. But she actually couldn't do that either, because the blinding effect of the scalding flares worked both ways. So, no straight forward assault would work (at least against a group this large, if only she had been given an Uzi or something like that).

Why did her lesbian partner have to be so nice? Bonnie in no way, shape or form endorsed this action, but of course Lyra being the ultra charitable nice girl set up a 'redemption clinic' as she liked to call it and began inviting total strangers in with open arms. She was putting both of their lives in danger considering some asshole with heavy firepower could've easily waltzed right in with not even as much as a cursory pat-down and blown their asses to kingdom come by now. Thankfully that hadn't happened yet with the introduction of the half a dozen people outside of the hostess and her girlfriend. First Brayden and Morgan, then that asshole Nathan. Then Spencer came in beaten and battered and looking like utter shit, which Lyra immediately began reconfiguring his bloodied and battered face. And now as of late, Jerry with his sliced neck also receiving free health care that was not available even to almost a fifth of citizens back in their native country. _Heh, native country my ass..._

She sighed and twitched her nose in frustration, she rotated the bottle once more; the bottle that she had concealed from everyone else's view and weighed on her conscious and pant pocket for several hours now.

It was arsenic, more commonly known as the most primary chemical in rat poison, colorless, odorless, and the taste is easily concealable by sugary foods and drinks.

She was quite convinced the only way she'd extend her life is by playing, but how? She had to do it covertly, sure the announcements would blow her cover in the future, but at least immediately poison was the most subtle way to go about doing things. Yes, she may have missed her chance with lunch, but perhaps if she served up a sweet drink she could get another opportunity to rack some kills, narrow the competition and be on her way closer to getting home.

But, there always had to be a monkey wrench in things. Of course. She still loved Lyra, not enough where she would literally give up her life to be with her, no, no, this ain't Shakespeare, but the fact remained she still had lot's of emotion and time reserved for the half-Asian girl. What would she think of her? Would Lyra still care for her, or just outright revile her for the rest of her limited future?

She could idly hear Brayden continue to play his acoustic guitar, the sickly sweet music pouring into the kitchen cut through the afternoon air and tense threat of death like a hot knife through butter.

"_...and you tell me, over and over and over again my friend, ah you don't believe, we're on the eve of destruction..." _Brayden's croaky voice rang out. That music caused Bonnie to scowl, it was good sounding, but the message of the song just pissed her off. She wanted to hear Lyra's harp. The only way she could wring the strings, it was magical. Hell, it was part of what infatuated Bonnie into Lyra in the first place. _Ain't that funny, her name's Lyra and she plays the lyre…how ironic, almost like she was meant to be great at that instrument from the damn womb._

There were a lot of contestants who had a lot to live for outside the Battle Royale. Family, friends, bright shiny futures that would never be seen. Bonnie would not begrudge them what they called their own, but at the same time she would selfishly admit that she had more to live for than many probably did. The oldest of six siblings with a single mother, she was practically used to being a parent on her own. She had been the nurturing one, she had been the supportive one. Remove her from the equation, and... _the center does not hold._

She could play the game. For them, she would. It was a terrible thing to consider, but if it was the only way...

Bonnie wanted to think of anything else, but it was very simple, and also very airtight, no other way out. _It's either that or die, and you don't want that to happen, do you? You've still got so much to live for. Mom, Jenny, Darren, Sabrina, Marlo, and Jacob, varsity volleyball, all those lifetime resolutions you haven't completed yet. And then there's Lyra but she's DOA now, if she's in this with you then she's gotta die at some point._

It seemed hard to imagine, but Bonnie supposed that would eventually have to be true. There was no loophole that allowed two people to exit the game alive, and if she wanted to survive, Lyra had to die. It would be a real tragedy; for her naiveté and outright lack of common sense, she was still an extremely attractive girl to have around and easily one of the most caring and altruistic people south of Canada. To lose her would have been devastating in any other scenario, but right now... she couldn't care about it that hard. She had herself and her own family to think of.

_I really just hope she doesn't-_

"Hey Bon-Bon, I'm back!"

Bonnie glanced up in shock. "I…umm…what?"

She was only vaguely aware that somebody was walking over. Suddenly brought back to reality, she craned her neck around to see Avery Beaumont waltzing towards her as casually as she would in a high school hallway. Bonnie flinched and hastily stuffed the small bottle into the pocket of her track shorts.

"How's it going?" Avery asked with a smile on her circular face.

Bonnie forced a tense smile of her own and felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, "I'm good."

"You look like you've just seen a ghost." Avery commented, "Are you sure?"

"Oh, There's plenty of ghosts on this island", Bonnie said with a grimace. "Or at least there will be when this whole thing is over."

"I'm really not much for philosophic bullshit", Avery said with a sigh. "I don't believe in ghosts. I do believe in death however, I guess that's where we'll all be soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess." Bonnie lied, they'll all be there, but Bonnie was going to do everything in her power that she wouldn't be joining them.

"Eh, I'm still trying to come to grips with the idea. But, I know this seems messed up, but at least I won't be alone in my life coming to an end, you know?"

"What do you mean?" Bonnie asked with a raise of her eyebrow.

"Well, you ever hear that saying 'misery loves company'?" Avery asked, Bonnie nodded.

"Well, I can at least find solace in the fact that I'm not alone in facing this _enfer. _We've all got it equal in here, you know?" Avery reasoned as Bonnie shuffled uncomfortably on her feet.

"Yeah, I guess so." Bonnie nervously replied. "But what does 'enfer' mean?"

"It's French for hell, _putain_."

"Oh, oka- wait, did you just insult me?"

"Yeah." Avery grinned, getting Bonnie to smirk back in kind.

"No fair in using words I don't understand in a different language, _perra_." Bonnie snapped back using a foreign language of her own.

"Oh, I see what you did there." Avery giggled while waving her finger at the track girl, getting Bonnie to chuckle like the schoolgirl she once was a mere week ago. After a few seconds of innocent camaraderie, Avery resumed her topic from earlier.

"Well I digress, I know it's selfish of me to think, but hey. This tends to bring the worst out in people, you know?" Avery said with a toothy smile.

"Yeah. I know." Bonnie said with genuine comprehension.

"Besides, even if you or I somehow inexplicably wind up being the one's to win it. Would we have really wanted to?" Avery asked inquisitively.

Bonnie raised her eyebrow again, "What do you mean, again?"

Avery answered after she reached into a cabinet for a suitable glass, then walked back to the refrigerator and poured herself a supple amount of iced tea from a pitcher the girls had blended together with lemon, ice, sugar and some Lipton tea bags.

"Well, think about it." She spoke just before taking a swig from the glass with a satisfying quench, "No one who makes it out of here is the same. Almost always for the worse."

"In which ways?" Bonnie asked, legitimately curious with what the Canadian girl had to say, this could very well apply to her once she won.

"All of them," Avery responded brazenly, "Physically almost no contestants have ever escaped the Battle Royale unscathed, usually if their lucky they may just be crippled or something like that; mentally…just look at Julia, they normally go batshit crazy and without the constraints of the law would probably become genocidal maniacs. Well, this all considering they didn't have a few screws loose to begin with."

"You don't say?"

"Yeah, I do. These people simply would not be able to function in society if it weren't for the asston of cash given to them for winning, if not for that. Do you really think they could survive in society on their own merit?" Avery asked with rising fervor.

Bonnie was kind of stumped, she imagined there were exceptions to this, but what did she know. "I- I don't know." She said simply.

"They're like war veterans, no, they _are _war veterans. War against those they once considered friends, lovers, rivals. Related on a causal fucking link! Hell, even family in some cases!" Avery was practically shouting as her glass of iced tea shook in her trembling hand. "They're treated like war veterans once it's over, their extolled for a while, but then once the music stops no one gives a shit about them. Fifteen minutes of fame my fucking ass!" She punctuated that with a sharp smashing of her glass on the nearby table like a particularly ill-tempered judge's gavel, not enough to shatter the glass but it did make a noise powerful enough to make Bonnie flinch.

Bonnie was actually shaken at Avery's words, they were thought-provoking, swift, and quite forceful. Bonnie's head began to whirl with thoughts as she tried to provide a proper response.

"U-umm, your right."

Sighing, Avery thanked the other girl. "I'm sorry, got a bit of a temper, you know?"

"That I most certainly do."

They both paused long enough to hear Brayden playing a different song accompanied with some more coughing. It was an iconic guitar riff affiliated with an iconic rock song, arguably Led Zeppelin's most famous.

"_There's a lady who's sure, all that glitters is gold. And she's buying a stairway to heaven…" _Brayden sang, trying his best to mimic Robert Plant's vocals but not really doing so with success.

"Awesome, awesome song." Avery remarked, " Can't believe there are music stores that ban that song from being played; oh well, all I did was come in on here to check on you, are you sure you're alright?"

Bonnie put on a faltering smile and nodded rapidly. Trying to best convince the shorter blond to leave and not call her bluff.

"Alright, if you say so." Avery acknowledged. After that, it was Avery's prerogative to leave the kitchen and join Brayden and the others in the big room; grabbing her glass of iced tea along the way.

Bonnie just stood awestruck. She watched as Avery left and didn't stop until she had completely vanished. Less than a minute later, she had forgotten her completely and was back to her plotting, occasionally glancing up at the barns rafters itself and feeling the bottle of rat poison in her pocket which she was thankful for Avery not asking what the bulge was in her track shorts.

The words did stick with her however, it was now harder to conceive of her original idea. It seemed much more odious, cruel and inhuman then prior, not nearly as easy. But that didn't mean it was impossible, just, not _as _easy. It couldn't possibly be easy to commit murder, not when you had even a semblance of emotion in you. No way… Only time would tell if the discussion between her and Avery Beaumont a.k.a. Girl #17 would hold out for the entire game.

Lovers…her, Lyra, Brayden, Morgan…sure many other unblossomed relationships and couples back home and separated. Family, the Macintosh triplets and the Belle's. If Shira's relationship with her late sister was anything like anything Bonnie shared with her five siblings, she couldn't even imagine the mental and emotional torture she had to be going through. _That's probably why she was so unresponsive and…broken earlier…how long will she live now that she's like this?_

"Well Avery, I guess you're not so bad with philosophy after all." Bonnie mused to herself while wondering if arsenic and sweetened tea go well together.

After a few minutes of rubbing the pill bottle and reflecting over herself, she started to feel sick.


	22. Hour 13: 43 Contestants Remaining

Darkness, blinding light, trees, sprinting, gunshots, kind of in their own echo. Everything's spinning around me. Bed, shack.

Mitsumi Sato a.k.a. Girl #5 wasn't exactly a fan of losing consciousness, who knows what could've happened while one was out of it. So of course imagine her chagrin when it happened to her. As she stirred awake in the small shack, greeted with the acrimonious stench of…who knows what and birds chirping in the outside 1 PM sun some thirteen hours after she had been (inadvertently) sedated by the long gone Diane Pye (Girl #13), she couldn't help but let out at an unrefined groan.

As she opened her eyes that seemed to be weighed down by a ton of cotton, she could dizzily see the sights around her. Lawn chairs, a kitchen counter complete with cupboards and a single window pouring in afternoon sunlight.

Rubbing the sand out of her bleary eyes, Mitsumi let out an extended yawn and stretched out her weary bones, getting several rewarding crunches. She felt something weighing on her lap, looking down she saw a UMP45 submachine gun heaved onto her lower torso.

She let out a buffed groan as she adjusted her eyes further and examined her surroundings. Where the hell was she?

She could vaguely remember running into this shed when the sun wasn't out, had to of meant she'd been out for at least long enough from the earliest of dark morning, all the way to… _1:27 PM_ according to her cheap digital watch provided for her on her wrist.

The pulsating in her head suddenly sharpened as she clutched her cranium closer. What had happened? She hadn't intended to sleep for so long, had it been an entire day? Or merely thirteen hours?

Her hair was quite tousled and she roused on the sleeping pad for a solid ten minutes before rising to her feet, she no longer felt tired, maybe a little bit bleary, but that would subside if she just moved around a little bit; she was far more confused than anything else. As Mitsumi rose off of the bed, stretching the kinks out of her spine and straightening herself further, she tried thinking back to how she got ahold of a machine gun, she could recall that wasn't her assigned Battle Royale weapon, it was something much crappier; a deck of cards (which she still kept in her pack anyways, it would provide her something to kill time with, should she be allotted time to kill in the contest).

She needed to know how she got here, without knowing what came before how would she be prepared for what lied ahead, she needed to retrace her steps. Leave classroom, meet… Gerry, Jerry? accosted by Carlos, blinded by a firework. Then I wind up in shed and am out cold. Hmm. It seemed as if recollections were gradually coming back to her in increments...

After a few more moments of cognizance from the girl, she thought perhaps her cellular device would provide some assistance, she did recall she was a revolutionary and needed to formulate an escape before more people died. Yeah, that was the key, that was the utmost imperative to accomplish before anything else, escape. She reached into her pocket and fished out her phone and pressed a button on the keypad to activate the LED screen, she was fairly surprised to see she had a large number of missed calls. The first couple were from her parents from a few days back (_probably just as you were kidnapped, damn_), there was one from Violet, four from Leonard, two from Rain, and three from an unknown number. Under the circumstances she was not surprised. As she looked at the sheer number of times that people had tried to call and noticing a message in her voice mail, the girl felt a sick tightening in her stomach.

Pressing the 'SEND' button, Mitsumi quickly held the phone up to her ear. She opened the voicemail and proceeded to listen the message with tense curiosity. As the prerecorded telling played out, she realized it was Jerry, Jerry had somehow gotten her number. The high-school popular part of her was initially skeeved out, but realized it was much more of a blessing in disguise.

"Motherfucker." Mitsumi muttered out.

Once it finished playing, she realized he was back in the cathedral with Flora, holy shit! She began to panic, yet grin simultaneously as she paced back and forth.

Her body began to quake with excitement, flipping out the phone she pressed "Reply" and rapidly typed out a message to Jerry's contact number.

Brushing some of her tussled her aside, she pounded out:

'okay, jerry, are you still at the church?'

She then pressed send, she didn't want to take off with wild abandon on a wild goose chase. She was a pragmatic and cautious intellectual; she couldn't take unnecessary risks without absolute confirmation on what the stakes or rewards were. She had to make absolute sure Jerry was at the church…if he was still alive at all. That thought actually abated her glee slightly.

After waiting for ten minutes in anticipation, her phone vibrated, notifying her of a received message. His message said this time around:

'im not at the cathedral anymore. Im at a barn with lyra bonnie and some others. It's north, near greer manor'

Upon reading this, she quickly fetched out a map from her duffel bag and quickly looked for Greer Manor, when she found it (wasn't hard considering how prodigious the lodging was), she found some offhand barns placed in a vast meadow. She pulled at a pen with lightening reflexes and put a large circle around the barnyards; She assumed this was where Jerry was, and it was unfortunately quite far away.

How long would it take for her to get there though? Two hours, Four, Ten? Who knows? One thought that popped in was to request Jerry to come to her locale, as men often did the work for women, not the other way around. Mitsumi wouldn't like to admit, but she was Westernized and bought into gender stigma's to some degree. She still was traditional Japanese in many respects, but still Americanized to a nonetheless. She had been stigmatized enough to think that men did work for women to gain their affection, that's definitely how she saw her friend Violet deal with men.

But upon realizing that since Mitsumi possessed Jerry's starting weapon and casting him out into the wilderness and into the clutches of sniper's and killers, no way in any shape or form was that a reasonable option.

But hell, she did make a promise. She really did want to see it through, and as a leader she was supposed to make sure that all of her disciple's were satisfied with her as a person. That included if it was a detriment to her, what good was a leader if they were just using others because it was advantageous, that's no leader, that's a sociopath, that's an Adolf Hitler. Sighing to herself, she kind of wished she were a sociopath, with her machine gun and ambition, she likely could've been mechanical enough to have this whole game beat. But no, she had a thing called a conscience.

She flipped open her phone robotically and dolled out a simple message to the Vietnamese youth supposedly situated at the barn,

'okay, Ill be ther as quickly as I can. And dont think about refusing. Im on my way.'

May have been lack of common sense and against better judgment, but she still sided with taking the hazardous trek over to the Northern half of the island rather then waiting for the most likely defenseless boy to waltz across the forest and get hacked to death with an axe or some other terrible, grisly death.

She methodically jammed all of Jerry's viands into her own bag in order to take up less space and less thing's to heft around. Once that was complete, she swung the bag over her shoulder, had the UMP45 around it's strap and was ready for take off.

"Okay, Jerry, here I come." She spoke to herself.

But as always with a mind as complex as hers, some other idea popped into her brain. She just thought of a way to possibly kill two birds with one stone, Mitsumi knew she was going to need far more then just her and Jerry to achieve liftoff, so flipping out her phone for the last time before departure, she wrote a copycat message.

'please meet me at a barn near greer manor near the north shore, we r getting out. –Mitsumi'

Mitsumi had pondered over the contestant list for a decent while before coming down to the decision. She wanted only people she could trust unconditionally. Just her closest friends and confidantes, people who would definitely not be trying to play the game out here. It would be immensely dangerous if she tried to bring a madman into their circle. So no killers, no backstabbers, no anybody who she had even the slightest inkling of doubt about. That was the way it was gonna go.

Unfortunately though, some of the people she wanted to call were either (unbeknownst to her due to being unconscious and missing the last two announcements) dead, or their phones were out of operation for a variety of reasons. April Macintosh (Girl #2) tragically didn't have a cell phone, so Mitsumi didn't even bother with her.

Nevertheless, this was what it ultimately came down to:

Roger Lombardi a.k.a. Boy #2

Flora Sharpe a.k.a. Girl #11

Logan Heffley a.k.a. Boy #13

Diane Pye a.k.a. Girl #13

Vikram Paval a.k.a. Boy #15

Rain Forscythe a.k.a. Girl #15

Leonard Tagashi a.k.a. Boy #21

And Violet Belle a.k.a. Girl #24

Despite her reservations, despite her doubts, despite the sheer impossibility of what she hoped to accomplish, Mitsumi pressed send and that copycat text made it's way to all of her chosen contacts as she hoped for the best... _Let's just hope this won't be the last mistake I ever make._

* * *

In the island's southern portion, away from Greer Manor and the military base towards the West, Flora Sharpe a.k.a. Girl #11 and Hank Macintosh a.k.a. Boy #18 had been walking around together in somewhat serene matrimony. Hank was leading while Flora being as demure as anybody on the planet, gladly followed. Though the fate of the both of them and what would occur in the contest was something that she just didn't know how to handle, or even talk about if she could handle it.

Unfortunately for the pair, Flora's phone had been obliterated during her first skirmish with Abigail Macintosh (Girl #10) in the very, very earliest minutes of the game. She ambushed Flora, shot her, and her phone…that wasn't very nice. That equated to neither receiving Mitsumi Sato's distress call, unbeknownst to them. When she told Hank about her and Abby's near-lethal showdown, he shuddered and forced back tears…he seemed really sensitive on the issue of his siblings, and for good reason. Flora couldn't even imagine what Hank was thinking or feeling. So trying to be considerate, Flora suppressed all desire to talk about Abigail. She weakly tugged on her bulletproof vest, reminding herself further of the ordeal and general turmoil this came had conferred onto her by the truckload.

She still felt an speck of guilt considering numerous times she had offered it to Hank, considering there was a good chance he would need it more considering they had a more or less leader-follower dynamic at this point (that and her affection and uninhibited adulation for him wanted to preserve his life far more than her own). However Hank vehemently insisted that Flora keep the Kevlar. The reasons he would give was that one, it was her weapon, and two, he felt like it was his responsibility to keep her safe (not accounting for the fact Flora herself was adroit in hand to hand fighting and herself boasting a stalwart physique, especially given she was one of the tallest female members of their class). That insistent chivalry made her feel even worse for making Hank exert more effort for the both of them while she idly stood aside, yet simultaneously made her even more infatuated with him. _Ugh, please Hank, please, just take me!_

"So where are we going?" Flora asked, brushing away any semblance of libido or anything that didn't concern their immediate course of action.

The farm boy got out of the haze that he had been in, looking back to the girl he had saved four hours ago. Her face was bright now, even in what was easily the worst situation anyone could have ever expected to be in. They would die, it was all but certain. Hank was the only one who had any semblance of hope between them.

"Find someone who knows what's going on," Hank said with his southern twang, "we're gonna find someone who knows what's going on and we're gonna get out of here is what Ah'm thinking."

Ever since the ordeal with the cathedral, Flora and Hank had been wandering around, looking for an apposite shelter to shield themselves in for the game. They may not survive for three days, but at least they won't be wallowing in each other's crappy feelings. They had tried looking for Jerry for quite some time, they figured it would be as simple as follow the scarlet trail of ichor and you've got your man, but alas, it was not that simple and the path was a mere dead end. So, as of now, the endeavor of trying to locate Jerry Tran (Boy #5) was not currently viable.

Despite that however, Flora could only smile. She had a realistic mentality about the game, she knew that chances for survival were just about nil. Then Hank would come in with his infinite optimism, not discussing death in the and always sure of a way out; she wished she had his positive outlook. Still, he was incredibly brave and made Flora smile to no end. His randomly assigned weapon was completely useless, and still he stood by the door waiting for her to exit. It was stupid, dangerous, and utterly romantic in Flora's eyes. She loved him, but she wasn't positive if the feelings were requited.

"There's some smart people here," Hank continued, "people who know how to get out. I'd place money right now on Mitsumi and Logan or maybe, maybe Walter. They're working on a way out, guaranteed."

"Mitsumi is a definite. She always know's what to do for thing's like these, she's about the smartest person I know." Flora spoke with a glimmer of hope in her eye, "She's always got plans and stuff for things like this, she's the leader of the student union in school after all, and Logan is her VP, so he's likely good as well. There's no way I'm getting near Walter though," Flora said, "he scares me. He's just..."

She shuddered.

"Intense?" Hank asked.

She gave off one of her coy, if a bit frightened smiles, "Something like that. Just scary."

After a moment of odd silence, Flora said, "So how do we start looking for people?"

They had stopped to have something of a picnic lunch of MRE's at an old car park, hiding inside a retired Station wagon while they munched on the freeze-dried food. Flora's prurient fantasies almost drove her to ask Hank if they'd like to...fornicate. But she knew it would be a moot point...he wasn't into girls, unfortunately for her and many a swoon female classmate coinciding with them. She sighed disappointed with the thought, she knew it would be ridiculously selfish to convert him straight just so she could be involved with him romantically and have him all to herself, and she also knew that she should be satisfied just for having him as a friend, especially considering he was one of her best ones. But the heart wants what the heart wants damn it.

Trying to mosey away from the frustrated feelings, she reminded herself of the ethereal beauty of mother nature. Especially apparent considering they currently sat in overgrown grass near a small stream that ran through the center of the island, quite a journey's distance away from the car park. The wind was blowing slightly, making the trees around them rustle and the stream gurgle. It was unbelievably pleasant in an unbelievably unpleasant situation. Flora's heart just melted with everything Hank did, it probably wasn't even intentional but just…_ahhh._

"I think," Hank said, "we should follow the stream south. It runs by some buildings and cabins, and we're bound to see some more people between here and there."

"There's killers out there though," Flora squeaked, "seven people are already dead! Even... even Violet."

Hank sighed, "We'll get Cheryl's gun when she gets back from taking a leak and move from there. Other folks got guns, but it's something. Besides, Ah can kick their asses if it gets too bad. Even Walter. If anyone tries anything on you or Cheryl, I'll make them wish their papa never met their mama."

"Oh, my" Flora said a bit unsure. "That's terribly violent." Flora not at all thinking about her earlier treatment of Mathias, it seemed completely irrelevant.

"Sorry, but it's true," Hank replied, "if something were to happen to you guys Ah don't know how Ah'd live with myself." _Can't let mom's deal happen with her, or April…or even…Abby... God where are those two? Damn I wish we invested in a cell phone family plan.  
_

Flora was touched and didn't know how to place it in words. _God, I really do love this man, don't I?_

Looking over her shoulder unconsciously, Flora hoped to see Cheryl and could not. Where was she? It doesn't take this long to pee, does it? _I'm really sorry, but, oh, my. I don't want to rush you, but please, please hurry._

And almost as if on que, Cheryl Lee, a.k.a. Girl # 20, emerged from some bushes to join her two fellow companions. Cheryl was a mutual friend of theirs who they happened to stumble across in the jungle shortly after the announcements. They had been running around aimlessly for so long, and adding her to the group seemed to create a semblance of order at the very least.

Probably the best thing from a game standpoint was the fact that Cheryl was the only one in the group with a gun. Her weapon, a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda revolver, was infinitely more a weapon than the roll of duct tape (now halfway depleted) that Hank had received or the Kevlar vest that Flora was donning. The gun was definite protection.

The gun wasn't the part that allowed Cheryl to enter their group. Trust, trust is what made Flora and Hank take her in. While many people from the graduating class had only known each other from the last year or so, Hank, Flora and Cheryl went back. Cheryl and Flora had been a part of the same martial art's class since freshman year, where they in particular became the closest of friends.

Hank and Cheryl knew each other since middle school, He found her easy-going and motherly nature to be quite alluring, and her acceptance of Hank as more then just a strawman redneck and willingness to talk about anything, that was plenty of qualities to constitute a good character in Hank's book. He fondly remembered they had the same post for walking kindergartners to school in early mornings as volunteering, the way she was so well to toddlers…she'd probably be an excellent teacher, or mom. Or both…working with kid's just seemed to be her niche. In summary Hank and Flora were two of the people who saw her good side more than anyone else.

"Hey guys!" Cheryl called as she exited the tree line, striding on over to the two and grabbing one of the bottles of water.

"Cheryl, we have a plan and I think you're going to love it." Flora said with a bright smile. "I mean, if that's okay with you."

"Really? Lemme hear all about it!" Cheryl said with forced smile and enthusiasm. The smile sold it and kept her in the group just fine, and she listened to the plan without really listening. It was asinine, but it would do...

...but it was not what Cheryl had in mind. If either Flora or Hank knew her true intentions, they'd probably have either just kept on running when they saw her or worse, killed her outright.

Cheryl would have done anything to get some quality time with Hank, and she did mean anything. It was an unrequited love, an unfortunately powerful one at that, but she was sure that Hank would see the way if all distractions were taken away.

Cheryl sighed inwardly to herself. Of course, there had been some jealousy about Flora. It wasn't much at first, just a little crush that Cheryl had had on Hank since the Iraq war. He was always the cutest of things, strong and athletic before any of them really knew what strong and athletic was. She had been fawning all over him since almost the moment they had met, while Hank, awkward and not knowing any better as most young boys tend to be, tended to ignore or shun her advances. He viewed her as a sister while she looked at him as a man.

It was like that through most of middle school. Now while prior to freshman year Cheryl had been a flat-chested, bizarre hybrid of a geek and a punk rocker straight out of an 80's John Hughes teen movie. Going into high school, Cheryl started to develop into a bombshell, and Hank seemed to take notice. He was paying great attention to her! It was all so wonderful, and it was all falling into place nicely. _Just make a move here or there and he'll be in the palm of your hand..._

Of course once Flora hit the scene…it seemed like he treated her oh so special, they became about as tight as a nine-year old girl's virgin pussy, why didn't they just get on with it? It felt even more excruciating that they hadn't even become an official couple yet, it was like Cheryl was a mule, and the carrot perpetually loomed over Cheryl, always there…but her never closer to her precious Hank…that was going to change.

Pinkie. Cheryl smiled her kind and friendly smile to Flora. Sure, they were close friends, but if it meant setting Hank back onto the right track... She was willing to take certain factors out of the picture to make it happen.

She smiled and simply agreed with everything that was said. It was going to be a beautiful couple of days.

* * *

He stopped at a picnic area a little bit way's away from the local cathedral. He wasn't very hungry, but after trotting without rest for hours, he thought he deserved a chance to rest his feet. Deciding it would be a safer place to rest at than the conspicuous picnic tables, Walter Peterson, a.k.a. Boy #3, ambled over and rested his goddamned aching behind on the stone edge. (Unbeknownst to him where Octavia Manago and Victoria Sanchez had been resting their heads a mere announcement's time ago)

He panted heavily while tentatively rubbing both sides of his head, while his blasted ear hadn't quite healed, the bleeding had at least stopped and he was trying to let it scab over. His other temple had received a brutal strike from Pamela Ridley (Girl #18) and her police baton. Hurt like a motherfucker, but at least it didn't crack his skull or tear open his ear wound sustained in the game's third hour. _Heh, when I survive this I'll be like Evander Holyfield and shit! Seth Rogan in Pineapple Express took the bullet well, why can't you?_

After his encounter with Pamela, he attempted to give chase. But it was a fool's errand, he had long lost her just like with goddamn Beryl and had instead roamed around Hillsborough until trudging into the forest as the sun flew high in the sky. His leg's felt like they were pumping nothing but fire due to all the survival exercise. A lackadaisical breeze swept by his cheek, almost like the touch of a gentle caress. In the light of the incandescent sun, he could see that the situation seemed almost serene. Poetic, even. The idea of a lone guy sitting where families might have once had fun toasting marshmallows and hot dogs, it seemed like it could have been straight out of a novel; If he actually partook in reading such literature.

Walter was seriously starting to become pissed, twice he had let his kill get away, they were both _girls_ for Christ's sake! How hard could it have possibly been? _Come on Walter, you're one of Cold Rivers High seasoned badasses! You controlled and dominated the school with strength and tenacity! Why the fuck can't you do the same in here? God if only I had a gun, an effing MP5 or some shit and I'd plow the goddamn road! Blast away the competition with some headhunter kills! _

Walter may have been cocky as hell, but he was willing to admit that there were other people out there who were good competitors, or at least other people out there who were also dangerous. Mitsumi of course, liberal dyke, revolutionary pussy she may be, was either going to figure a way to get out or kill everybody else in the game.

Toby, well, according to the announcements he was the only one so far to kill twice, and in less then twelve hours…and he took out Anthony and Laurel! It did mention something about how Anthony was too stupid to fight, but still…Toby's a very tall and strong guy and with the will to play, he'd definitely be someone to look out for. _Son of a bitch killed Anthony…bastard, at least he got rid of the guilt of me having to do it myself._

Joel Hellmuth apparently took out Mickey, really? That seems…impossible, like a termite taking on a bear or some shit. Oh well, the announcement's wouldn't lie. Joel killed Mickey, hope the chink at least put on a good fight, roughed up that string bean honky real good. Then there's Abigail with her automatic gun, Trixie, Derpy a.k.a. retard girl. Then Nick of course, physically he ain't shit. But he has a gun presumably, knows how to use it, and is damn well addicted to the BR. So how's that for something?

As he fumed and cursed rapidly under his breath, he was beginning to hear the faint sound of children not laughing (_hope it 'aint brain damage_) when he could see somebody in the distance. It looked like a girl, and possibly a pretty one. She seemed on the shorter side and looked like one of those classic 'American Girl' dolls with the dress and curly brown hair. He lost Pamela and Beryl, but there was no shortage of pretty females in the game. The powers that be had made sure of that, including as many attractive contestants as possible in the game purely for television purposes. Nobody wanted to see a square-faced, pug-nosed girl with a cleft palate get killed after all.

_Stop this, this is stupid. You're in a Battle Royale, this is no time to let your libido take control of you. Once was enough, you'll get yourself killed if you don't take control._

"Just one last time," Walter muttered as he dispelled the thought. Pulling out his ice pick he prepared to charge into the girl with full force. _Okay, don't fuck it up this time, she's only zombie walking…maybe she is one, oh well, even if she is she'll be dead forever once I'm done._

With a feral and determined expression, and throbbing head that was sweating bullets, Walter looked and felt like hell, but no way in fuck was he going to let his target slip away again…

* * *

The six friends were sitting around a campfire like the plot to so many horror films released in their lifetimes. It had taken an admittedly meticulous bit of planning to coalesce this event together, especially with her bit. Despite the fact her companion _despised _camping, the shorter girl managed to convince her sister to join her and the four other guests. It started with Abigail Macintosh talking about how she was going on a nature hike with her sister April, being that the two were tried and true country girls and relished in the outdoors and all it had to offer, it seemed like a natural fit. They were talking about this in their tree fort, yes, they were high school teenage girls and they still had a clubhouse, so what?

Once Abigail mentioned it, Scotti Lou displayed interest in going on the condition they invite Rain Forscythe and Gillian Davis. And of course, seeing that two of her best friends were likely going camping with one another, Shira naturally wanted to join. When she thought about it more, she realized she could bring her sister Violet along and they could bond more as legal siblings, they both knew they loved each other unconditionally, but showing affection through sisterly activities was always a bit refreshing.

They were going to Olympic National Park which would only be about an hour drive away from Cold Rivers. It was going to be awesome, a great way for her and her sister to bond. Yet in spite of that, Violet still hated camping and the outdoors in general it seemed. But with much pleading and with Shira offering to do both of their share's worth of laundry for a week, Violet reluctantly agreed.

When they arrived after a rather less-than exciting road trip, Violet coming from an ultra-rich family offered to pay for the whole thing (actually insisted), the Macintosh's relented after Violet's sixth assurance that it would be good for them and that she truly didn't mind.

They all hiked in from separate entrance points with all the ample provisions. The sun was shining peacefully pleasant overhead, and the weather was simply ineffable.

On the edge of the woods, Scotti met April and Abigail, followed shortly by Violet, who had packed a near mountain of things into a several bag's being hauled by Shira like a human pack mule, it was tough and heavy as hell, but Shira loved Violet so she was easily willing to put up with it. Rain and Gillian were nowhere to be seen, which concerned Scotti. But April assured her that Rain would meet them at their first campsite, Gillian however couldn't make it due to something with her parents (whatever that may've been remained unspecified). They then headed into the woods, talking up a storm.

Some hours (and many "Are we there yet?"s from Violet) later, they arrived at the campsite, where Rain was waiting for them. Rainbow's zoomed over the area like a natural gay pride parade from an earlier rain storm (this was spring-time in Washington state near several waterfalls, so this was hardly a surprise, even if it was magnificent to watch), while Rain collected logs to sit on, and gathered rocks for the fire from a nearby river. Shira watched the whole thing with quiet wonder while Scotti tripped over one of the logs into a spin, and crashed into the river, wetting herself. Laughs were shared all around and thankfully the tomboy had clothes to spare, which she promptly changed into.

Later that night after they set up tent's and the fire was glowing with naked flames, they all shared gossip, talked about stories of time's past and talked about hot guy's (much to April and Abigail's chagrin their brother Hank was mentioned frequently by the four other girls), typical teenage girl banter. They all had hard cider and beer that the Macintosh's and Rain snuck in as well as plenty of chips per person as they sat on three separate logs, ogling the naked flame of the contained fire before them. All of them except for Shira had a fairly good buzz on (some more then others), Shira would've partaken if it weren't for her pediatrician telling her she lacked the "Alcohol dehydrogenase" enzyme in her liver, whatever that was.

Rain eventually told a scary story about the hook on the car door, a classic one that was among the most famous of all scary tales. That actually shocked Shira and made her scream and embrace Violet tightly. After the rest tried their best to slur out some spooky tales in their inebriated state, they all had gone to hit the hay around midnight.

That's when their talk began.

"H-hey, Shira, are you awake?" Violet slurred as she nudged against her step-sister from within her own sleeping back.

Shira was awake, not only was she too preoccupied mentally, but the fuming of Violet's humidifier made sure that slumber would be all but futile. But still, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, Shira responded in a whisper.

"Yes. I'm awake."

"Okay." Violet replied, "How are you liking this trip?"

"It's quite fun, thanks for asking Violet." Shira responded gladly.

After a second of silence, Violet hiccupped and spoke again,

"Random question darling," Violet began, "If you could kill anyone in the world, who would it be?" Violet asked.

"Anyone in the world?" Shira repeated shakily.

"Whole wide world," Violet reaffirmed. After contemplating her answer for a moment…Shira was a peaceful person, but ire was a familiar feeling she had experienced, she was human after all. She mulled over…who's non-existence would possibly benefit her life? Hmm…

"I think it'd have to be Lily Marsh." Shira answered, "It's just she's so mean to me, Abby, and Scotti. And she can be so stuck up, I swear!"

With a drunken grin and giggle, Violet spoke, "Yeah, I know I'm a bitch but god, that girl takes the goddamn cake, you know what I'm saying?" Normally Violet was not one to use obscenities so freely, but hey…people act differently when they get tipsy.

Shira chuckled herself, "Yeah, I understand." She then added, "How about you Violet?"

"Who would I most like to kill?" Violet asked, unsure of the question.

"Yep."

"Hmm, "That one's too damn easy," Violet said with a swagger and a drunken grin, "Michael Jackson."

"What? MJ? The King of Pop? Mr. Thriller?"

"Yeah, that SOB. He sleeps in an oxygen tent with a chimp and fucks young boys, you telling me that's not enough reason to kill him?"

"That's a good one," Shira said with a spate of laughter, adjusting within her sleeping bag.

"Hehe yeah, listen…Shira, I'm really sorry I've been such a bitch to you. Made you carry all that crap… god, I really shouldn't have…What's wrong with me?" Violet poured out, not really choosing her words.

"Nothing's wrong with you, I mean, maybe you're pedantic and haughty at times, but still, you're still a nice person." Shira said with genuine sincerity. Violet rolled on her side to face her sister, her face seemed to behold nothing but melancholy, and a flushness of face.

"No, I am a terrible sister, I always snap at you, and everything I do is so uptight, I treat you more like a goddamn servant then a sibling, what kind of person am I?" Violet said, at near shouting levels.

"Shhh!" Shira hushed. "You need to lower your voice, you may wake up the others."

"I'm really sorry!" Violet apologized in a way similar to her timid friend Flora.

"It's okay sis. Just, you need to calm down, everything's fine."

Violet laughed, not a cheerful or giddy one. An ugly one, if a dead corpse was capable of laughing, that's likely what it would've sounded like. Violet stared at Shira with eyes that looked near bloodshot

"No it's not! Everything is not fine, I promised to be the best sister I ever could, and I'm not at all, before that sisterhood social I was mean and terrible, and I still am! I haven't changed. I hate myself…" Violet said with hysterical abandon.

"Well the sisterhood social was fun! So were the Nascar races, so were tons of times! You may not be perfect, but who is?" Shira responded, trying to calm her sister down. She sat up in her sleeping back, no longer lying down.

"But there were so many other times, whenever you tried to be nice and be a good sister, I always had a chicken shit reaction! Would always pour massive derision on it… what good am I?" Violet said again, further going into a conniption.

"Listen, Violet, you need to stop being so hard on yourself. You can't be ideal all the time, you know?"

"Well, I can try to be more often!" Violet assured fervently, "You almost estranged me and tried to become April's sister I was so abusive!"

"Well, it was just a bitter spat, and that was two years ago! Why are you being so clingy?" Shira asked, trying to diffuse the intensity of the situation.

Violet laughed that ugly laugh again. "Well…I'm really not sure if I should be sharing this…but, to fuck with it. I think you're old enough…hell, we're almost the same age, I need to stop treating you like you're a baby."

Shira raised her eyebrow at her hiccupping sister, her buzz was still going, but she at least seemed semi-sober.

Clearing her throat, Violet began to gloomily talk.

"Well, you know how you're my step-sister, correct?" Violet sighed, her drunkenness seemingly evaporated.

Shira nodded. Violet was breathing audibly now.

"Well…when, my parents. Your legal guardians, took you in…God… how come I put this." Violet fumbled, she was visibly shivering and her gorgeous face seemed to falter, trying to come up with the proper way to form the statement.

"Your mom was a 'disgraced' socialite from Manhattan who…actually divorced your biological father after she caught him cheating." Violet sadly explained.

"I don't see how-"

"With another man." Violet cut off Shira with that piece of information, Shira shushed, but still saw that as rather petty to divorce someone over.

"I still don't see how that's so bad."

"You're right, it isn't so bad. But, to your mom that was not the case." Violet sighed wearily, she blinked for a second in the dark tent before continuing. "She immediately moved to the coast, unknowingly pregnant with you." Shira continued to listen intently, quite unsure of where this narrative would lead.

"Embarrassed beyond any explainable extent, she moved west to California, while still bearing you." Violet stopped to hiccup and swallow down some negative aura. "You never really stood a chance. Your mother was near mad and vowed to make you out all her lost dreams and broken promises, most particularly that of being a great dancer."

"Hmm? Being a dancer, that doesn't sound too terrible." Shira said optimistically.

"Well, you're lucky. For someone like you, on paper. Being a professional dancer wouldn't be so horrible a fate. But under the care of your deranged mom. It was hell, you probably don't remember most of it since you were so young. But…" Violet paused again, for some reason she really couldn't coherently finish the whole story without choking back tears. Why was this so hard?

"…The practices, long hours and scant diet would have driven nearly any person insane… Yet somehow… it didn't break you."

"Oh, well that's awesome!" Shira chirped.

"Wait-I'm not finished yet, eventually she tried to re-marry, but got into another spat with a suitor and moved again to Washington, Tacoma to be more precise." Violet sat up as well, scrunching in her blankets and sleeping sheets, she flicked on an electric lantern that illuminated up the tent. "She moved there because she had family… I heard that eventually a neighbor found out what she was conducting on you, he called CPS and…I think that's the last any of us has ever heard of her."

"What happened to me at that point?" Shiras asked."

"Well, rather then letting you become a ward of the state, your mom's sister-in-law- who happens to be my mom- adopted you so you would become a cherished part of…well, at least your extended family." Violet explained, her explanation winding to it's conclusion. "I believe we were both seven or eight at the time."

"Woah." Shira gawked, she could hardly believe her ears. How had her upbringing been that child unfriendly, and not remember any of it. She was aware that she and Violet were not truly consanguineous, but…she didn't know _any _of this backstory. "So, your mom agreed to be my caretaker, who was my mom's sister-in-law?" Shira asked with measured breaths. It all sounded so insane that part of her wanted to believe it all to be a lie. None of it sounded like a story Violet Belle would, or could tell. But her face never faltered, the resolve in her voice never wavering. She was telling the truth. Violet nodded her head in confirmation, yeah, no way could she be lying.

"H-How do you know this?" Shira asked skeptically.

Violet hesitated for a few seconds before sighing, "Mom told me that story, she told me it about a year ago. She also…she also didn't want me to tell it to you." She choked out.

"God, why the fuck did I even bring it up? What's wrong, I just. I just, felt like… this is the first time we've ever gone camping, y'know, and. What the fuck, I shouldn't have even mentioned it, I'm really sorry Shira." Violet sobbed, she was now starting to get wet in the eyes as she let the tears roll.

How had her sister become so emotionally compromised; was she always like this when she got drunk?

"I don't understand why you're so sad, I turned out fine!" Shira exclaimed within the confines of constituted whispering volume.

Violet sniffled and her crying subsided slightly after some time. "Well, she also told me to be sure to always be nice to you…make up for your lost time in childhood by making you an extra pleasant present. And of course…I've done a piss poor job at it." Violet weakly whined.

Shira gripped her sniveling sister by the shoulders and stared her in her sapphire eyes. "Listen, you've been an amazing sister, Violet."

Violet opened her mouth to refute, "Bup-up, let me explain, Violet." Violet closed her mouth, while Shira opened hers to speak.

"You covered yourself in mud and masqueraded as April during the sisterhood social, you always check in and help with schoolwork, always offer to make snacks and support most of my decisions…heck you even came on this camping trip for me even though you have made it explicitly clear that you hate camping. Hell, that show's love right there!" Shira finished her rant with heavy breathing.

"Well…Well…" Violet trailed off, Shira then pulled her sister in close and hugged tightly. Violet being somewhat confused in her alcoholic stupor was stunned for a moment, before feeling affectionate herself and embracing Shira in kind.

Shira backed away and put a finger up to her lips and shushed Violet like a mother to a weeping child, "Don't worry Violet, this was a great talk we've had… but I don't wish for it to continue, it is ideal the way it is…we can talk more in the morning." Shira assured with kind and affectionate eyes. "But for now, we need our beauty rest, we've got a lot of moving to do tomorrow…I love you." Shira said with absolute sincerity.

Violet seemed to be choking something back, she kept this up for a few seconds, words failing her until finally she piped out, "That, sounds great Shira…I love you too."

The two siblings continued to intimately embrace, as best friends, and as close family. They kept up their tearful bond for several minutes, just them and the chirping crickets and the vast cerulean night sky. They smiled tenderly to one another and rested their heads; lulling into a peaceful slumber, their happiness seeming to overrule all the bad in the world…

* * *

A smile slowly formed on the edge of the previously dormant Shira's lips.

To this day Shira Sweet-Belle, now known as Girl #8, was immensely grateful that she learned that story about her past, it motivated her to strive further, not in the realm of expression through movement, but through vocals. And it seemed to pay off well, the lessons imbued with her innate penchant for singing landed her first chair on the choir and arguably their most crucial piece. It was good, all was right with the world…her world…Violet was still around to cheer her up and clap vehemently during concerts (as well as compete over one another over whom was more attractive, as good of a relationship they had with each other they were still more or less rivals in that regard), Abigail wasn't a killer and she and the once-alive Scotti Lou would get into misadventures trying to find their true calling in life.

No more. That smile soon went right back into nonexistence at that realization…a frown began to take it's place instead as Shira walked by some picnic area mindlessly. The girl sniveled to herself, her fugue was starting to fade…was that good? She knew it wouldn't last forever; too many memories were making emotions leak out, and as much as she tried to dispel them, it was of no use.

After getting away from the barn from seeing the panicked faces of the occupants, she had wandered in the cathedral she had stopped by six hours ago when Flora Sharpe (Girl #11) was advertising people to join her in a vigil to honor the dead, except now it was empty except for what appeared to be a human butterfly in a silver cocoon that was incessantly pleading with her, the girl just ignored the talking head's cries and waltzed on indubitably.

Now that she was at a picnic area with a defunct snack bar close by, it's steel doors closed and the small structure in serious need of refurbishing. She felt a serious cramp starting to seize on her lower calves due to perennially walking for such a long time. _Charley horse, damn it. Not now, please, Charley, go away and come back some other day!_

She started to just hobble forward as an alternative. _I miss you Violet…maybe if I keep walking I'll see you again, I'll see everyone again…and if it kills me, at least you'll be on the other side._

Shira had a powerful magnum revolver, it would've been all too easy to commit suicide, and the thought had crossed through her emotionally compromised mind more than once, but no. As much as they loved one another, and no matter how selfish they could be at times, it was never so that they'd want to sacrifice their lives to avenge the other. There was no way they'd want one or the other to die for each other. In life, Shira in all likelihood would have sacrificed herself if it meant saving Violet, but Violet was no longer around. There was no getting around that. There was no way that she would ever have a chance of getting her back, but as long as she held the memory... that would count for something, wouldn't it?

Looking skyward, Shira spoke four simple words, "I love you, Violet."

Survival would be hard, but if she kept on her toes, there was still a chance at least. It would be better than giving up. Whether or not she made it to the end was an entirely different ball of wax, but getting that far might have just been worth it. At least then she'd have tried. If she made it to the end, if she somehow managed to fight to the top of the heap, then she would have gladly done it in Violet's honor. If she didn't make it, well... at least they'd be together on the flipside. Not a bad set of options when you came down to it really.

Just as things were coming together, a boy who had crept by the edge's of the bushes bounded out of them with a hoarse scream. Sharply turning to see the boy, she could see it was Walter Peterson with an ice pick in hand raised overhead as if to stake the girl down.

Shira didn't even think as she unloaded all six cylinders at Walter, the trigger was pulled so fast and the recoil was so immense that it nearly broke her wrist and knocked her off her feet. With half a dozen bullets blasting out of its muzzle, Shira was sent sprawling into the wall on the other side by the recoil of the gun with her ears ringing. The explosion was deafening, the stink of expended gunpowder rich and strong in their noses.

Walter didn't even bother to flinch as all the shots missed him by a mile. He slammed his ice pick deep into Shira's shoulder, ramming the spike through her collarbone and flesh as a spray of blood emitted from the wound. Shira instantly let go of the revolver Shira opened her mouth to scream but found that the pain was so intense that only a choked groan could escape her mouth.

As Walter quickly pulled the ice pick out, he deftly thrust it three times into her chest, twice puncturing through her front and out the ribcage. Although Shira was aware of the pain, she wasn't aware of how bad the situation was, how fatal her injuries were. She could feel the fire in her chest, she could feel pressure building up (actually blood that had started to collect in her chest, pushing against her heart and filling up the one punctured lung). Coughing, she noticed the copious amount of blood that came flowing.

No, she couldn't be stopped! It couldn't be this way, she needed Violet, or Abigail… she needed someone! _Come on soldiers, penalize him!_ _I don't want to die alone…_ She bitterly thought in her adrenaline-intoxicated state.

As she weakly shoved Walter away from her, she panickedly took off in a sprint, one that Walter didn't even think possible for someone this mortally wounded. Shira tried to ignore the acid in her body, all that mattered was Violet, if she could escape from this, certainly she'd be able to see her again. Despite all the natural rules for human anatomy, Shira took off in her delusional rush, trailing ichor with every step. One way or another, she would be reunited with Violet. Walter furiously bounded after her, he had a messy job to finish.

She looked to the sky for answers, she felt like she was running a trail of fire and exhaling cream cheese, but it would all be worth it. She could faintly see a glimmering from above. Was God winking at her? A blinding twinkle of light made her eyes close reflexively, _Violet, is that you? _A wide smile congealed in blood crossed her face. Violet!

She would never know for sure what the sparkle was, because at that very instant, a sound that Shira's insane mind couldn't register went off, a muffled pop in the distance that signified a rifle being fired. The bullet angled downwards entered through the bridge of Shira's petite nose and exited out through her lower neck, effectively emptying out the back of Shira's skull and causing what was above to erupt in a geyser of blood and gore. Her small body was floored to the ground instantly, her body reflexively twitching several times before going limp; very, very dead.

Though Shira had died instantly, she still had enough time to think about the person that mattered to her most in the entire world, satisfied.

* * *

Standing on the roof of Weber's Seaside Resort, Mallick Nadim a.k.a. Boy #25 had been shooting at people for the past eight hours with absolutely no luck, he had been getting quite a bit frustrated, but finally he managed to catch Walter and Shira's skirmish and got a perfect headshot on the latter. _Holy shit. _His heart skipped a beat when he pulled the trigger and got the ideal sniper mark on the girl. He had seen them both wandering by and while his finger hovered above the trigger, he had somehow found himself unable to pull it. Until now of course.

It helped to figure himself as a sniper in battle – a poster boy in one of those history textbooks for Vietnam – positioned behind enemy lines to take out the threat. He wasn't sure exactly who he'd gotten this time, but if anything, things were real now. _You did it. You actually killed somebody. This is all real, you actually did it!_

His stomach leapt into his throat when she watched that girl's head explode, but…the job wasn't done yet.

Cocking the rifle and adjusting his scope, he prepared to match his sights on the other boy.

* * *

Walter had only a second's reaction time before watching his target in front of him have her head exploded into a thick cloud of red mist and bloodied brown hair before what remained of her brain splayed out on the ground like spilt lasagna. Her limbs spread eagle like a used doll, she was a vulture's buffet now.

He didn't have much time to reflect on it though before hearing what sounded like a cork popping out of an immense bottle followed by a whizzing that narrowly missed him. That spurred him into a panic-induced sprint for his life, scrambling on his feet and making to turn around he heard another whizzing sound before it nicked the bottom of his duffel bag, punching a large hole in the cloth that allowed some of his provisions to spill out. He really started hauling goddamn ass now. Looking back and high, he could just barely make out the silhouette of somebody with a rifle crouched down on the roof of a distant skyscraper…a sniper! A motherfucking sniper was shooting at him! Holy shit! No way in fuck could he fight, fleeing was the only option…for now.

He heard more whizzing's before making for the tree line, it was only fifty feet away, surely he could make it, right? He heaved his chest in heavy breathing as he pumped out nothing but fire, sprinting on borrowed energy from his legs. It was only thirty feet away now, each bullet marking every yard he crossed it seemed. _Come on goddamnit! Legs, god, Walter move your fucking ass!_

Finally, with his heart beating rapidly against his chest, he exhaustedly managed to cross into the forest in a desperate strive for safety, not before hearing a bullet lodge itself into a tree trunk just next to him that caused splinters to shower down on his leather biker jacket. He silently thanked whatever gods that he didn't believe in for letting him escape, before sputtering with a mad smirk on his face, the tree branches that hung low greeting him as he came through.

Someone may have finished the job with a bang for him, but he still would have to be partially credited with the kill, seeing her head explode like a party-popper was gruesomely surreal and he was admittedly not prepared for that. He shook the image out of his head and ambled by a boulder large enough for him to rest on. Collecting his thoughts and breathing once more, he now knew he was free one less competitor, though with that sniper… hopefully there would be less.

Walter chuckled to himself out of stress, relief, and a little bit of fear. Flipping his duffel bag on it's underside, he saw the missing patch of cloth, it seemed like an MRE or two, or a water bottle slipped out, oh well…it's not like dehydration or starvation would be the death of him.

Tightening his grasp on his ever-present ice pick- now stained with blood- he wiped some sweat from his forehead and got back to his feet in a casual stroll. _You were lucky, you know that. But its also skill, it's all about skill. And you've got skill now, don't you? That Sniper, He was the coward, I'm the badass, he knows that, they all will know that. I'm the motherfucking king of this thing, not him. In the end, I will be on top. That's just how it's got to be. I'll be the one giving the beatings this time..._

If there was one thing he knew about, it was beatings. One a day, almost every day, whenever he was bad (and he was bad a lot), sometimes when he wasn't. It was bad. It always was. _But now you're the strong one. You're the dominant one. You're the one who's going to be delivering the beatings. You'll be the strong one, not him. You showed that freak, and now you can show them all. What if he's watching? Fuck him, when you win this thing you'll have enough cash to have him taken care of. Then the pain will stop. Until then, you dispense it._

Smirking satisfactorily to himself, Walter took off through the forest, ready to begin the game anew.


	23. Hour 14: 42 Contestants Remaining

He had been running longer then he ever had in his life, that was certain; and it hurt. A lot. He was never the fastest, nor nimblest of his classmates, he was stocky, unathletic and an ultra-nerd, but it kept his troubled mind occupied, alive, and more importantly, en route to a certain locale he simply _had _to be.

After receiving Mitsumi Sato's message, her primary lieutenant Leonard Tagashi a.k.a. Boy #21 had sprung to action and messaged her as swiftly as possible, he had still been grieving over Violet at the time, and even though nothing could bring her back (which still saddened him to near suicidal levels), he wouldn't dare let the same fate befall his best friend and older sister-figure. His _onee-chan. _He had always helped Mitsumi with anything and everything in the past, this time was certainly no exception. Besides, it was a whole hell of a lot better sitting around and grieving, just waiting for some scavenger to swoop by and do him in.

_Barns, near Greer Manor… okay. It'll take a while, but will be worth it. Definitely._

He was on a mission now, before he had been going around trying to call his friends, but none had answered now. Violet and Mitsumi were the first two, and when neither had answered, he naturally assumed the worst. Of course tragically he was actually correct in the former's case. When he first got the news of Violet's horrible death, he wanted to die. His world, his reason for being had just been brutally murdered in cold blood by that Trixie cunt, and there was nothing he could have done for her. He could not comfort her in her pain, he could not try to save her life. All he could do was wish for God to strike him down, grant him the merciful death that she had not been granted in the hopes of catching her on the other side. Tears rolled down his face freely, and he screamed at the unfairness of it all. He screamed until his lungs felt like they would burst. He screamed until he felt like passing out. He didn't even care one iota that a hunter could've heard him and disposed of him as easily as Violet, it didn't fucking matter. He screamed so hard, it almost felt like the despair had left his body entirely. He screamed until everything began to make sense again. _He still needed to be around for Mitsumi. Despair gets you nowhere Spike. You have not accomplished a single thing in your life by despairing over anything. You cannot avenge Violet simply by giving in and hoping for death. No... you must not despair. You must…_

Well… nothing would bring her back, but perhaps if he gave one giant 'fuck you' to the big wigs behind the Battle Royale…that'd hopefully make Violet smile, wherever she was. And that thought certainly made him smile.

As it was, Leonard didn't want to kill anyone. Hell, he was debating whether or not he could hurt someone if he tried. Sure he had a hand sickle, but compared to the bombs and cannons everyone else was sure to have, that was a rough translation of that old proverb "knife to a gunfight". Oh well, that situation would have had to come up before he could really think about what he'd really do.

He sighed. Mitsumi kept him focused. If he kept thinking about her, at least there was some hope. Well, at least hope that he wouldn't go absolutely insane.

As the boy continued to furiously jog through grasslands, near the trail that lead away from the school, he found himself halted by a gruesome sight. Leonard could smell the sight before seeing the body, but upon crashing through some bushels, he spotted the corpse on the ground, it was bloody carnage…but mostly blood now.

It was a putridly copper smell, an ugly one, one that made his stomach cartwheel like an out of control motorbike. There was nothing to be done, but he still needed to see the body, he couldn't just leave it… something inside him simply wouldn't allow it.

Leonard got up close and saw it was a body with no head to speak of…blood was all over the grass, a massive puddle that he didn't know that there was this much in a human, it was brutal and repugnant, but he couldn't vomit…not again, he'd done it too much already.

With his hand sickle by his side, Leonard wandered around the decapitated corpse, trying his best to discern who it was. Bounding around the dead person, just due to the height and attire, he immediately distinguished it as a boy. Thank god, at least it wasn't her. Going over the checklist of the deceased in his mind, he mentally kicked himself for not figuring out who it was sooner. It had to be Alex, the kid who got his head cut off by a "flying death disc" as Dante Donovan so eloquently put it. He was dumb as hell, quite the pervert, but also a damn good skater seeing as how easily he could glide around on railings, over trash cans, and even down stair cases as a mere second reflex. He was also very rich, if the house Leonard went to for collusion on a Biology project was any implication.

In an odd sense, he was actually relieved it wasn't Mitsumi, or April or Joel or Logan…and even if it was a moot point, Violet, he wasn't sure if he'd actually be able to stomach that one. The thought was nearly unfathomable to him, the sheer prospect making him sick, but-

Now, one of the many things in the world that Leonard had learned, or been blessed with, was the ability to judge spatial relationships and moving objects. His reflexes when it came to dodging projectiles were keen, or at the very least he could brace for the incoming object and shield himself if it was unavoidable. It was a sixth sense of sorts, almost, but it was good at keeping Leonard out of harms way.

So, he didn't find it odd when the back of his mind started screaming at him, telling him to duck. He did.

And the scythe missed his head by a few inches, slicing through air before it was brought up again. The boy whirled around and rolled on the ground, getting a few feet between him and Trixie Song, a.k.a. Girl #9. She wielded a scythe in her hands and was draped in a cloak that almost resembled a poncho. With the crazed look in her eyes and the scythe and the cloak, she looked like Death on crack.

Leonard quickly shuffled to his feet, gripping his sickle tightly with sweaty palms. She recognized this girl with the malevolent smile, it was Trixie. The girl that killed Violet…what were the odds that she wouldn't do the same to him?

With her deranged, nigh-bloodthirsty, slasher smile present on her face and her demented eyes cutting through Leonard like a chainsaw, she said something that practically cut him to the core.

"Hello… Spikey-Wikey."

* * *

Logan Heffley, a.k.a. Boy #13, had to admit that he had some issues with being in control. It was a nightmare not knowing where things were headed, and that was the thing about the Battle Royale that scared him more than anything else. The only thing he knew with any level of certainty was that he was going to die, because the odds were simply too steep to even consider. He didn't know how he was going to die, but there was no question that it would be coming for him. Death by gunfire, death by blunt force, death by electrocution. But in whichever form death came for him, he refused to budge.

Even with Mitsumi's 'we r getting out of here' message buzzing his phone.

The thing was, it all seemed a bit too good to be true. It wasn't like there hadn't been some attempt to seek escape in every season of the Battle Royale program thus far; none of those had ever come close to fruition. Inevitably, the revolutionaries would get killed before they could do anything substantial, and almost never by collar detonation. Either one of the frontrunners would come across them, or one of the group would turn their back of the others and go out in a gun-blazing glory. It would be pointless trying to team up, much less attempt to fight those in charge, right? Those were the statistics. It would never work, no, if the guys behind the scenes had anything to say about it, escape would be impossible. And besides, there was always the chance that this message was a sham. There was the chance that Mitsumi only wanted people to come over so she could snipe them one by one. There was the chance that somebody had killed her and was trying to trick him into coming. There was the chance that it's all a ruse...

_No_, he decided, _there's too much at risk here. It's simply too dangerous to throw caution to the wind in a Battle Royale. No, no, definitely not a good idea to head out there. Even if it's Mitsumi that's asking you... sorry sweetheart, it's safer for me if I stay alive. Good luck with everything._

He sighed disappointedly with a readjustment of his thinly wired glasses before turning around to the nearest camera in the hospital room he was in and quickly gave the finger. He wasn't going to budge…even if it killed him…

* * *

At first, Leonard was too petrified to dignify a response, instead his eyes only widening in fear as he subconsciously took a step back.

"What's the matter?", Trixie asked with hubris and spite percolating from her voice, "not used to being confronted by a girl?"

Trixie's eyes glowed with pleasure, and that Cheshire Cat grin that almost didn't fit on her lips not at all making Leonard confident he'd be walking away from this encounter with the black widow.

"How typical of a _boy_ to not know when a girl is after them. You all can be so stupid sometimes." Trixie chortled before poising to strike.

With a strange smile on her face, Trixie lifted the scythe high and swiped the weapon downwards. Falling on his rear, Leonard crawled back quickly enough for the tip of the blade to land in the ground between his legs, mere inches from Bobbitizing him. He put a quick note in his mind to thank God later for that one.

With fearful eyes, but not willing to die, Leonard scurried away from the lodged falcate. She pulled the blade from the ground and lifted it high once more, and once again Leonard was quick enough to react, wielding his own hand sickle with both hands and holding it to make contact with the blade. When Trixie brought down the blade it made contact with Leonard's, creating a sick 'KRE-SHANK' clank.

Leonard stumbled back before retaliating by slamming his blade into Trixie's left shoulder. Her eyes instantly shot open as she let her scythe drop to the ground.

She wailed in pain, as the torrential blood began to leak out, staining her shirt and cloak a different color. It was a deep wound; there was no question about it. It was so deep that it would be impossible to fix. Even if it was patched up somehow, she would never move her left arm again. Before she died, she would never be able play tennis, draw a picture, or even take a test; the fact that Trixie was left-handed didn't improve the situation. She would become a cripple if infection didn't do her in.

The pain surged up her arm as she howled in agony. She gripped her arm, feeling the thick yellow cartilage and maroon blood beginning to drip out like some tainted wine. She never expected the inside of her body to be this hot; the fluids almost burned her hand. Her entire arm was on fire, and no matter what position she was in, it was burning in agony. It was the worst pain she had ever felt in her life.

She continued to howl as Leonard retreated the blade, drawing out a comparatively mild spatter of blood. Trixie screamed into the two-o-clock afternoon like a banshee; Leonard Tagashi, standing above her, let a look of triumph light up his face.

Initially his first instinct was to say sorry, but no, why should he apologize? Not only had she just tried to kill him, but she had damned to hell killed before (_Violet Belle No less being her first_). If she killed before, she most certainly would be willing to do it again. Besides, this bitch was getting what she deserved, pain and agony, much like she had been dishing for her short time in the game. _Yeah, you like that don't you? _He felt powerful, it felt amazing inflicting righteous retribution onto a murderous bitch like this. It felt…right.

An idle part of his mind told him that he should've been feeling compassion and pity for this young woman, but instead Leonard only felt glee that this psycho was getting some comeuppance. Pulling his arm back far, Leonard imagined digging his sickle into Trixie's eye, through her brain and killing her nice and fine. It would be easy, too easy. End a life, a dangerous life, an evil life, save myself and a lot of other people some good trouble assuming this girl really was incorrigibly evil.

However, after a few minutes of watching the Chinese girl writhing in agony-too potent to even give her the chance to get up and strike with her scythe-his face transformed into one of terror and regret.

"H-Holy shit!" Leonard squeaked. He thought he had meant to kill her, but seeing her liquid soul gush out like that, he always was a squeamish guy. No matter how much ill-will he beared towards her, no matter how much she likely deserved to die, he still found himself incapable of doing the dirty deed. He could barely handle gore in video games, much less real life. Besides, this still was a girl after all. A psychotic narcissistic one, but still a girl, and admittedly…a hot one.

He hurriedly scurried away from the wounded girl, nearly slipping along the way as his duffel bag and sickle bobbed up and down with each lunge away, leaving Trixie to wallow in her own fiery pain. Sprinting through the jungle, Leonard realized that the situation was reasonably hopeless, though he was not one to give up. You're on an island surrounded by people carrying guns, knives, bombs and sharp sticks, looking for one girl who could easily kill you.

Perfect baby, perfect.

Once Leonard left, Trixie was left hunched over sobbing over the searing pain in her shoulder, admitting something to herself that none of her classmates thought possible.

She was scared. How could she have been bested like that? So easily and by such a puny, twerpish peon. How the hell could that happen? She was destined for greater things, the best, not servile pieces of filth like that!_ No, it can't happen again! Sloppy, sloppy! I no you're not here mom…but you're advice…it's been the best thing ever for me!_

Right there, Trixie had three epiphanies.

1) She loved her mom.

2) She was right about everything, if Trixie believed it…it could really happen, there may be a few obstacles along the way, but it was up to her and her alone to solve the problem.

3) She needed to go out there and find another one

She had lost Spike, he was too fast, but there wouldn't be many Spike's out there. No, there would be slower people, less righteous people, less... lucky people. The pain will eventually go away, the risk of amputation, well that may be another story. But thankfully the Great and Powerful Trixie shall not be impeded by such trivial incumbents, that's what robotic prosthesis's are for. When this is all over with, and with Trixie on top; she'll have truly fulfilled her mom's proverb and have the prestige, accomplishment, and reward to verify. _I would say bless her soul, but since God is an exaggerated fairy tale, bless her heart._

The rage, fear, and disappointment previously mixed into one blend, began to mitigate at the realization of the high reward, sure there was an equal risk, but at least if the odds didn't fit Trixie's playstyle, well… she couldn't place what. As she grappled her scythe's staff and began to limber away, sobbing while nursing her shoulder wound that made her arm hurt like a white hot screwdriver in her bones; she sobbed to herself. The Great and Powerful Trixie suddenly didn't feel so Great or Powerful.

She felt weak.

* * *

"So, how many people are in here?" Roger Lombardi a.k.a. Boy #2 asked while scratching his spiked up hair.

"Umm, about," Lyra Archer a.k.a. Girl #25 trailed off, counting on her fingers out of recollection, "six, if you include me that is."

While Trixie Song (Girl #9) massaged her sliced shoulder near the school, these two teens were outside near Greer Manor, Roger standing at the entrance of the large red barn that resembled an American rural life painting from his history textbook, or even more locally available, the Macintosh barn just within the Cold Rivers city limits. Lyra was inside the door, giving him a brief history of how "Hillsborough redemption clinic." was founded and who the proprietors were. She asked him if he was playing, he said no. Afterwards she walked him in with a kind smile and gave him a succinct tour of the place and what infrastructure they had to work with.

"So, who's here?" Roger asked, "It also kinda smells like pot. What's up?"

Lyra giggled, "Well, Brayden was here earlier."

"Oh, that makes sense." Roger responded with a wide lip smile in return. "Is he still around?"

"Oh, umm, no. He took off about a half hour ago." Lyra answered with a faint sense of melancholy, "But, he did thank us for the hospitality and gave me and Bon Bon two joints each for 'a good time'." (Quotation marks around the _good time_.)

Roger snickered, "Heh, good 'ol Brayden, don't worry, he's got the good shit."

"I'm inclined to believe you, but I don't smoke." Lyra answered kindly, "Well, Morgan also went off with him. But stoners set aside, we've still got Jerry, Spencer, Avery, Nathan and of course Bon Bon and yours truly."

"Okay, awesome. In all truth, I actually came here because Mitsumi sent me here." Roger explained to the slightly shorter girl.

"Sato?"

"How many other Mitsumi's do you know that are in this game?" Roger asked.

"Good point." Lyra shrugged.

"Speaking of which, is she here?"

"I'm sorry, she isn't." Lyra responded regretfully.

"What? What the fuck? Why would she send a message to us to all meet here when she herself isn't here. What the hell's up with that bitch?" Roger fretted with rising irritation. The innately ardent fervor of Roger instantly coinciding with the vicissitude.

"Hey! Don't call her a bitch." A raspy voice croaked from behind Lyra, causing both to turn around. As it turned out, it was Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5, he was holding his newly stitched-together throat tentatively with a scooped hand. His face seemed a little bit pained, but also seemingly upset at something, Roger presumably.

"Huh?" Roger gawked, "what happened to y-"

"Mitsumi said she'd be on her way, why are you here?" Jerry asked with an askance countenance, his bleary eyes rolling up and down Roger's physique.

"Well, she sent me a text message saying to meet at a barn near Greer Manor, so, yeah. Here I am. But what's up with you? Why do you sound so hoarse?" Roger asked, his duffel bag at his feet.

"Oh, umm, I got my throat slit, but now I'm all fine and stitched thanks to Lyra here." Jerry said, pointing to the girl, she smiled kindly.

"Oh it's nothing Jerry, I'm only doing what anyone would've done in my scenario." Lyra insisted.

"Trust me, no you didn't. You did stellar," Jerry thanked, "But anyways, Roger, I'm here just waiting for Mitsumi to I guess show up, I would've found her myself, but she insisted that I stay where I am, so yeah. I believe she has an SMG anyways, and she's extremely smart, definitely much smarter then the both of us put together. So I think she can handle herself, so let's just stay put."

Roger contemplated this account for a moment before figuring that was a reasonable enough rationale to accept, "Hmm, sure, why not."

It was at this point that meek and mild Lyra interjected with, "Say, guys. Why did Mitsumi contact you, and tell you to meet up here?"

Jerry answered her question, "Well, you see…ahh screw it, you seem very nice. The truth is that-" Jerry was cut off by Roger suddenly clamping his sweaty hands over Jerry's mouth midsentence. "Uh, pardon us Lyra, me and Jerry need to speak for a second, okay?" Roger asked. Jerry was mumbling underneath Roger's hands with a muffled voice.

Lyra just looked on with perplexed eyes and merely shrugged, "Oh, well, okay. I'm going to go to the kitchen. You boys just do whatever you need to do."

With that, Lyra turned around and strode to the kitchen, a spring in her step. Roger quickly turned back to Jerry after watching her bounce away and glared at him harshly, "Dude, what the fuck? You were about to tell her about Mitsumi's shindig." Roger roughly hissed at Jerry. Jerry yanked Roger's hand away from his mouth and spoke in defense.

"What, what's so wrong with that?" Jerry asked indignantly. Roger just blinked, absolutely flabbergasted with his mouth agape.

"Wow, how dumb are you, maybe that pot wasn't just Brayden." Roger muttered agitatedly, "Look, if it's an escape plan, she would only want those that she could explicitly trust, you got me? How can we trust her?" Roger elaborated. "I would say how could we trust you? But since Mitsumi herself called you…I guess she knows you're good."

"Hmmph, thank you," Jerry sneered, "Well, I feel like Lyra would be a worthy addition to our escape team. She's really nice and all."

"So? That means nothing, Toby was a nice guy and he's already gone and killed Laurel and Anthony, just because they're nice doesn't mean we can trust them to help us get the fuck outta here."

"Well…that may be true, but if so, how come she repaired me?" Jerry asked emphatically.

"What do you mean?" Roger asked with an austere grimace. Jerry then lifted up his neck, revealing a Christmas gifts' wrap worth of bandages that concealed some rather amateur sown stitches around his neck just above his metal collar, how Roger did not see this before totally eluded him.

"That's what I mean Roger, if Lyra really was a psycho, she could've easily just killed me while sowing my neck or activated my collar while she was operating on me and I would've been none the wiser." Jerry told with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, maybe she didn't want to do it with all these other kids around." Roger responded, trying his best to fabricate reasons as to why Lyra didn't murder him in cold blood when she had the perfect window of opportunity. "I consider myself to be somewhat pragmatic. I don't think we could trust her henceforth. Heck, I don't even really trust you." Roger bluntly said.

"Well I feel so lucky." Jerry sarcastically chided back.

"Whatever, my point still stands, how can we trust her? She may seem all nice and dandy now, but what's to say she won't stab us in the back?" Roger said.

"See, that's why the Battle Royale program is so damn effective. Trust. It's as simple as that." Jerry said with an erudite charm, "That's how this bloody game works every fucking time. They will never ever find a class where everyone fully trusts one another because that's just how high school works."

"Okay, well, thanks for proving my point then." The Italian boy smirked.

"No, the thing is…don't you want to break that trend?" Jerry asked rhetorically, "Isn't it better to air on the side of trusting someone, then never trusting anyone ever?"

"Well, lives are at stake here, yours, mine, Mitsumi's…. Hell, it's best to stick with what we know."

"Without trust however, civilizations would cease to exist. Humanity needs to come together in times like this, I mean…" he paused for a moment before deciding what would be best to say, "If everyone kept thinking to themselves 'I shouldn't trust this guy because he may bash my brains in and steal all of my materialistic goods'. If everyone had that mentality…where the fuck would we be?"

"Well I guess your right, but this is different." Roger said simply.

"No it isn't," Jerry refuted, "Y'know, fuck it." He added with a note of finality. "LYRA!" Jerry called out.

In a seconds time Lyra casually walked out the kitchen to appease the request of whomever called her. "Yes? Can I help you?" She asked tenderly with all the mirth and delicacy of a saint. If she were out in the real world and didn't have her future robbed from her this way, she'd probably make a great mom, or teacher…or caresitter of some sort.

"Listen, we met up here because Mitsu-" Jerry couldn't finish his sentence as Roger suddenly tackled the Vietnamese boy into a haystack, knocking the wind out of him.

Lyra shrieked aloud, getting Avery Beaumont (Girl #17) to quickly rush out with her chrome Desert Eagle pointed at the tussling boys, while in the sliver of the kitchen doorway, Bonnie Navarro (Girl #6) could be seen craning her neck away from some activity she was conducting with an anxious expression on her face, and wildly looking around before quickly resuming her endeavor.

"_Merde!" _Avery shouted in her French-Canadian colloquialisms, "break it up, break it up!" she barked.

She roughly grabbed Roger by the shoulders and managed to unglue him from the other boy, who quickly gasped for air and scrambled to his feet like a disturbed chicken. Roger tried squirmed and wiggled, trying his best to break loose. But Lyra approached him and stared at him with gentle, but misunderstood eyes. The effect was soothing, yet also pitiful, but it did get Roger to eventually stop resisting.

"Alright, fine, Jesus Avery you can put it down," Roger spat, "go right the fuck ahead Jerry, and blow the whole operation, I'm going to the back to talk with the others." With that, Roger angrily stormed to the back room where Spencer Ryan (Boy #10) and Nathan Blue (Boy #8) were resting their respective heads.

Sensing that the crisis had been averted, the situation diffused, Avery also went back with him, her trusty Deagle sheathed in its holster.

Lyra turned back to Jerry. "What the heck was that? What 'operation'?"

"Well, basically, the short of it is that Mitsumi's planning an escape from this whole Battle Royale shindig. And I was thinking that you'd be good to have." Jerry noted with genuine conviction. "What do you think?"

"So, you're saying an escape plan?" Lyra repeated quizzically.

Jerry nodded in confirmation.

"No joke?" Lyra asked cautiously, Jerry nodded once more.

Lyra stood there, flabbergasted for a few seconds before her face lit up like a firework. "Oh my gosh! Can you believe it, she's really doing it, she says she's got a way out of here! Out of this thing! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, this is great!" She said excitedly.

She laughed vigorously with jubilation before hopping around like a rabbit on cocaine while Jerry just bemusedly watched. This sudden wonderful twist of fate was enough to make him want to break into dance or song. However, she did not dance or sing. But her actual reaction to Jerry's news was just as impulsive. She was just so happy that she felt like sharing her happiness with someone. And she did indeed share it, but in a most unexpected manner.

Without any sort of warning, Lyra placed her smooth, slender hands on Jerry's rosy cheeks, pulled him closer to her, and kissed him full on the lips. This kiss was not just a simple, casual peck; she kissed him with a fierce tenacity as if he were Bonnie. She kept his lips locked with hers for approximately twenty seconds, Jerry felt the need to pull away at the flood of awkwardness this produced, but it felt too good to pass up, besides; her arms enveloped around him.

In all that time, Jerry was virtually frozen with shock. He knew that Lyra would be pleased to hear the news, but he had no idea that she would be **this **pleased. Was she _really _lesbian?

Eventually, Lyra did pull away from Jerry and looked him in the eyes. There was still a modicum of sentiment in her irises, but the rest of her eyes conveyed feelings of perplexity and alarm. Jerry could see that only at this time was Lyra starting to realize what exactly she had just done. She brought her fingertips up to her lips and blankly stared at the ground without really seeing it, a mad blush on her face.

There was a long, awkward silence between the two of them. Once it was over, Lyra nervously looked away from the floor and commented "Umm… I'm sorry about that, Jerry… I don't know why I did that…"

"It's… it's alright, Lyra," he told him, even though he was still stunned by what just happened.

Lyra said quickly. "I-"

"No", Jerry said quickly. "No…that…. that felt good. I just…I've never really done that before. It sort of scared me."

"Well, I hope it didn't come out wrong." Lyra spoke with a mousy charm about her. Wanting to keep the air between the two from getting two awkward, Lyra spun around and clasped her hands around Jerry's, getting them both to blush once more. She smiled at him warmly and with shimmers in her amber eyes, she mouthed the words "thank you" at him before letting go, spinning back around, giggling like a smitten anime girl and dashing to the kitchen all in one go.

Jerry just stood absolutely stunned, transfixed at the door Lyra leapt through, a mad blush on his face and a decent 'rising' in that certain organ down south.

"Thank god no one was around to see that." Jerry whispered to himself before trotting along and slouching down on a bale of hay and thinking sensual thoughts of perverse fantasies. He had no idea how badly things were about to come undone.

* * *

"BON-BON, BON-BON!" Lyra screeched as she came rushing into the kitchen, Bonnie on her part rapidly turned around to face Lyra without even a second to react before Lyra passionately smooched Bonnie on the lips. It wasn't anything too heated, after five seconds Lyra pushed herself off of her lover and stared at her with excitement and fire in her eyes. Bonnie couldn't help but think that she was always the far more emotional of the two, she looked surprisingly together under the circumstances, but then again, wasn't she always? Bonnie was the consummate worrier and pragmatist; Lyra was about as laid-back as a person could be. It infuriated Bonnie to no end sometimes, but there were times that she was glad for it. This wasn't one of them.

"Bonnie! I have great news!" She squealed again.

Bonnie raised her eyebrow, "Okay, what is it?"

"Mitsumi has a way out and wants to hold it here! Isn't that great? That means we won't have to die or play!" Lyra said excitedly, barely being able to contain her joy.

"Is it really, now," Bonnie mused rhetorically as she stuffed the pill bottle further into her track short pocket.

"Yeah, of course it's great!" Lyra gushed. "If we get out of here, we can go home to our families, and, and we won't have to kill each other! Oh my gosh, this is amazing, don't you see?"

"We're not doing this, are we?" Bonnie said doubtfully. "You can't seriously be thinking this is a good idea."

"But why not? Do you not want to get out of here?" Lyra asked emphatically. "You know what this means, right? We won't have to kill anybody if this works!"

"_If_ it works," Bonnie said. "That's a big if, I hope you know that. More than likely this won't work out at all, we'll all die when somebody goes too far and pisses off the guys in charge, and we all end up missing chunks out of our necks because the _explosives_ they use to control us go boom. Let's face it, there's no getting out of this. And even if we do escape, do you really think you'll get to go home? The best you could hope for is an incredibly difficult life in some third world nation where you hide from the authorities until you end up discovered, captured, and executed all in one go. And that's only _if_ you manage to escape. _If_ does nobody any good."

Lyra looked stung at Bonnie's tirade, her mouth sagging lower and lower. She finally relented, "I never... I guess I never thought about it that way, but... hope's a good thing to have, right? Anything's got to be better than... than... you know. Killing our friends, or being killed."

"I don't see it as a sensible solution, besides…Mitsumi's better at revolution then actually progress from what I can see, organizing protests that get people killed and ruined rather then accomplish jack, think back to May. Get my message?" Bonnie said rather coldly. Lyra felt hampered now, why did Bon-Bon have to be so blunt? She still loved her, but still… it could be quite cruel at times.

"I mean, come on Lyra. At the moment, there are forty-three of us left standing," Bonnie continued, unconsciously she leaned forward with an aggressive mien enveloping her like an omen, "Going off of the latest announcements, likely less than that by now. That's forty-three max. We might have a chance –and I mean a very slim chance – of surviving if we all pooled together and rebelled against the big wigs behind this whole _Fucktastrophe_." Bonnie punctuating that last obscenity with a surfeit of aspersion, "But some of the people playing this game are already too far gone. Think of psychopaths like Toby and Trixie running around; sick sons of bitches going around executing their fellow colleagues in some of the worst ways known to man. I can say without hesitation that I don't see myself sitting down in civilized conversations with people like that. Aside from that, forty high schoolers don't just disappear overnight." Bonnie's words at this point had cut through the previously elated lyre virtuoso like a ham through a meat slicer.

"H-how about we slip out during nighttime, there is, there's always a chance." Lyra stammered nervously, between the two of them one thing was completely irrefutable, Lyra tended to be the yin to Bonnie's yang. Lyra seldom could stand her ground when contending with her conspicuously more athletic and flagrant girlfriend, there were times when she loved Bonnie's vehemence, sadly this was not one of those times. Lyra fortified her mental barriers for a unabashed lambasting for what she just spat out impulsively.

Bonnie sighed, pinching out her anxiety out the bridge of her nose, "I'm really sorry for being so turbulent, but Lyra, most of the people in the class have both parents alive," Bonnie stated, "Several also have siblings. Myself being the senior of six kids raised by only my mother. If all of us were to escape the Program, do you **know **what would become of our families? The government would arrest them and hold them in jail until we gave ourselves up. It would be a psychological war of attrition with only one victor...and that goes for all of us."

"How can you be so sure of that?" Lyra demanded desperately. Trying her best to assert herself and poke a chink in Bonnie's cold, soulless wall of logic.

"Because it's happened before," Bonnie answered, "While we might get off free, our families would pay the price. My five younger siblings have only me and my mother to depend on for nurturing. If I was to leave the Program and disappear without a trace, my mom would not be able to handle it, none of them would. I cannot allow that to happen. I love my family to death and especially my mother. She's made huge sacrifices for me, for all of my brothers and sisters and she's made me into the person I am today." Bonnie concluded with as much honesty that she conceivably could provide, her very soul and moral compass being imbued, nigh, weaved into that diatribe. It made her feel nasty and selfish for deflating her girlfriend like that, seeing her physiognomy flash from ecstatic, to unsure, to utterly defeated. Made her feel even more horrible considering what she was about to do...but when in Rome...

"I'm sorry I went off on you like that, I just needed to get that off my chest... I think I'm going to pass out some refreshments." Bonnie said more or less as a decent excuse to not only put some space away from the palpable awkwardness, but also just to instigate her plan in full swing (though now secretly hoping that when this was all over Lyra would forgive all of the wickedness the varsity volleyballer would reap and understand it was all for a good cause).

As she turned to the platter of glasses filled to the brim with sweetened iced tea, almost as if to spite Bonnie directly, the bottle of arsenic she had stowed away so securely (or so she thought) had toppled out clumsily like something out of a murder drama, the evidence required to pin the crime on the suspect dumb enough to keep the smoking gun so close. She just never thought it would be her. It made an emphatic, conspicuous sound that masked the cursing under Bonnie's breath as she stood-still, frozen solid.

Lyra quickly eyed the bottle and rushed over to scoop it up before Bonnie could interfere. Quite frankly, she was perplexed, and yet horrified when she went over the label.

"Arsenic…" she trailed off, "What is this for?" she asked with askance accusation. She still couldn't really put two and two together yet.

"Uhh, umm, nothing!" Bonnie stammered nervously._ This is not good, this is not good! _

"Where did you get it?" Lyra asked, it was now her turn to go into a conniption.

"I don't know." Bonnie lied, through her teeth.

"How can you not know this?" Lyra groaned.

Bonnie looked away guiltily "I just…don't"

"Oh my gosh, I can't, how did…" Lyra paused as her face morphed into one of delayed fathom "Wait a second…" Her face was contorted into an aghast grimace, horrified at the realization,

"Holy shit! Did you-did you, try to, p-put this in the tea?" Lyra stuttered, absolutely appalled with her girlfriend turned to would-be-murderess.

Bonnie just looked away with her eyes tightened shut, wanting this mess to just go away.

"Bon-Bon." Lyra began with hurt eyes and a quivering lip, "did you want to poison our guests?"

Bonnie just bit her lip tighter, her refusal to answer was all the response Lyra needed to figure out that she had caught her girlfriend red-handed. Lyra wasn't sure how to handle the news, physically she just paced back and forth, trying her best to contain herself from screaming 'till the cows came home. Consciously however she had no idea how to react, on one hand she loved Bonnie unconditionally, the other she was glad she averted this tragedy and saved a handful of lives that moment, and most persistent right now…her girlfriend was a wannabe murderer!

Bonnie just stood by, she had her machete sheathed and her flare gun holstered, but she wouldn't dare use them on Lyra, unless… No, she _would not _use them…on Lyra… Bonnie just anxiously stood by, awaiting her girlfriends stinging chastising, awaiting for her to tearfully scold her, to hit her, to plead with her, to do anything really; just the tension of standing aside waiting for Lyra to do something had to be the worst of it, and believe her, it was _bad_! _Please Lyra, do something…anything…anything has to be better then this grim feeling._

Lyra's lip began to quiver, as she began to stutter as she always did when on the verge of crying. "You're a m-m-monster, b-b-Bonnie! A monster!" she screamed as she ran away sobbing. And while Bonnie did feel terrible emotionally, she wasn't completely compromised into being lulled. On primeval instinct, she lunged towards Lyra like a jaguar, deathly afraid she was about to reveal her true nature to the others and get her executed. Bonnie managed to tackle Lyra to the floor with a harsh thud and quickly tightened her hands around Lyra's neck, muffling Lyra's panicked breathing to suppressed wretches and murmuring.

Bonnie was actually very strong for a girl of her build as she boasted seasoned arms conditioned and bolstered by a high school's run worth of varsity volleyball, arms strong enough to make Lyra's throat produce an odd wrenching sound as she gasped and futilely clawed at Bonnie's powerful hands.

Lyra's half-Asian, roundish face began to swell like a ripened turnip from lack of oxygen, staring hurtfully into Bonnie's slender, frenzied, and partially mad one. Lyra's body was still flailing nervously on the ground like a dying fish beneath Bonnie. She was hurting physically but even more emotionally. How, and when had Bonnie become so…cruel? Where was the Bonnie Navarro before the number 6 was allocated to her? Lyra wanted that Bonnie back.

As her body was further deprived of oxygen, she struggled more yet with less conviction. Bonnie watched as Lyra's eyes rolled back upwards, her irises fading, giving them a very white look. More vessels burst in her face, causing her face to flush to a distinct reddish color from her normally yellowish half-Asian complexion. _I'm sorry it had to be like this Lyra, but that's what you get for being so naïve and clueless in such a wrong time and place._

"Holy shit!"

Bonnie craned her neck to see Nathan dashing out of the barn with his duffel bag flailing around his hips, obviously having just seen what had happened. She would have to pray that Roger and the others, who were still in the stables, hadn't heard his screaming.

Unfortunately for Bonnie, someone had. As Lyra continued to be strangled and asphyxiate underneath Bonnie, suddenly sharp pain struck throughout Bonnie's entire body as everything went gray for a few seconds and saw red stars immediately afterwards. She was now off of Lyra and smack dab on her rear and felt herself sitting up, quite nauseous and smarting enormously.

She could see Roger Lombardi wielding his crowbar in an aggressive manner, and like a fellow warrior, Bonnie knelt up to support herself before evolving to a stand. She was in extreme pain, but by no means letting down, she quickly unsheathed her machete and wielded it at Roger with hostile, predatory eyes.

Lyra was gasping and sputtering at her feet, Bonnie watched as she slowly crawled away out of the kitchen like a wounded infant. Instantly afterwards everyone else that remained in the barn minus Spencer was suddenly present, Avery at the forefront.

"_Tomber!" _Avery barked, her massive chrome Desert Eagle punctuating the command. "_Tabernac_!"Avery shouted in addition, the Quebecois profanities slipping right off her tongue like an old habit.

"Don't make a fucking move bitch," Avery commanded, "or I'll blow your ovaries out your asshole, so help me God."

With her heart (and head) pounding more then she wanted to admit, Bonnie knew she was in quite the hot pickle. Here she was, surrounded by an assemblage of hurt, tired, scared and angry gazes, with a pistol capable of taking off entire limbs pointed at her. _What to do, what to do? _Thinking of nothing better to do, she dropped her machete to the ground as a sign of surrender. It fell to the tile floor with a dull _clank_. Then in a contrivance that would've made both John McClane and Dirty Harry proud, she unholstered her flare pistol and fired off a blinding conflagration faster then Avery could pull the trigger of her hand cannon.

The destructive fire that was hot enough to burn through the tile floor went off with the same effect as a flash grenade, blinding everyone looking at the ball of divine coral-pink light. The Spanish girl quickly scooped up her machete, quickly hauled ass in an experienced path while everyone scrambled, cursed, screamed, and went into a frenzy (Avery in particular leveled off several shots in Bonnie's general direction while yelling French profanity, those shots catching nothing but air and wall). Fortunately for Bonnie, things went off without much of a hitch as she quickly collected her bag and hauled ass out the back door of the kitchen, melting out in the bright light of day.

Once she was out of the barn and out of the vigilante mob's clutches, she was greeted with the bright afternoon's sun and it's thermal embrace, a cross breeze sweeping along her body coolly and whishing the wet grass of the serene meadow, getting some refreshing droplets of moist dew on her face and arms, pelting her and giving her an odd and cryptic sense of relief. She kept running through the pasture, running faster than she could ever recall during those track meets, running and running until she could no longer here the noises.

Once she was safely in the encroaching forest, she noted some kids running out of the red farm monument, being followed by what seemed to be a cloud of grey dust. Smoke maybe. They were too far for her to conveniently engage, pretty far out in the boundary's of her naked vision, but that likely indicated that the barn was now short some occupants and possibly on fire. That made her smile (though behind the grin she did feel a modicum of guilt about what she did to Lyra, but that made her weak. She quickly shook her head and repressed the thought). They would all be scurrying out like chickens on acid, waiting for the all mighty butcher's cleaver.

Running through the forest with her flare pistol tucked in her belt, and her arms making fast minced work of any branches or flora that got in her way, she felt like she was back on the court again. The same adrenaline induced tenacity and competitive got back into Bonnie again, except now there was no Coach Holden, merely just other chicks and dudes that had to be taken out. For her five younger siblings it had to be done, she could never let that be forgotten. If she lost sight of why she was playing, she'd be no different then the rest of the monsters out there.

_All concerns of men go wrong when they wish to cure evil with evil. Darren told you that, right? That better be damn right, if you're watching this guys…please don't think less of me, this is all for you…_

Home would never be seen by anyone again, that was for sure. Parents without children, brothers and sisters without siblings, for most of them there would be no homecoming, that much was certain. _There's no morning after here, not unless you make it yourself._

But not Bonnie. She would be going home, and she was going to make sure of it. Looking up to the nearest camera in an adjacent oak tree, she looked up to it and spoke.

"This is for you guys, let mama know I'll be back in a couple of days. And please, please…don't think I'm evil for what I'm about to do… I love you all…"

With that said, Bonnie wiped her face with her shirt's sleeve and resumed sprinting further away from the wretched barn and all it's idiot occupants…including Lyra. The Hillsborough Redemption Clinic was officially closed.


	24. Hour 15: 42 Contestants Remaining

In many countries, fast and efficient transportation is cherished as a luxury or a privilege. The invaluable commodity of expedient conveyance being of utmost imperative to ones' commute to work, points of interests, in general making ones' life much more convenient than without said item. That said, this is why larceny of any vehicle is regarded as a Class-A felony in most of these same countries.

In this day in age, in America, carjacking and grand theft auto are two very serious crimes that any citizen would be so unfortunate to be caught doing. Once the thief is apprehended, he or she could be sentenced with anything from a $10,000 fine to a life sentence in prison.

However, in the Program, all laws and moral constructs upheld by society in order to maintain an air of order and decorum had been lifted. Therefore everything from rape, to murder (especially murder), to arson, and even jaywalking...those were all fair game as far as the powers that be were concerned. While the boy had no intention to partake in any of those (_self-defense though, or in the defense of someone who truly needs it, that's all the killing that'll be done by me_) felonies, he was willing to commit one act of misdemeanor for his own benefit. Car-jacking. Because after all, one had to be quick and elusive in order to keep up with the competition. Thus, using any means necessary to acquire some form of transportation would not be regarded as a federal misdemeanor.

Rodney Woodrow a.k.a. Boy #22 was taking advantage of this policy with impunity, he had made quick and productive use of his time. Several hours ago, just before ten AM to be precise, he had been deciding how to spend the remainder of his limited existence when he found the site, almost like a divine hint from above. A sky tram.

What appeared to be a boxcar connected to a cable was slowly moving its way through the air. It had the appearance of a floating tram, but it was too stationary and still to be floating. Rodney had only seen it once before, and that was back when was living in The Big Apple, he had seen and ridden on one on his visit to Ellis Island. At first he was genuinely perplexed with how and why one would be on Weber's Island until he figured that it was a seaside resort and that people had lived here at some point, the place was a tourists attraction, so it did make sense in hindsight.

Right in that instant, an idea hit Rodney. Although it was sketchy, and although it was impractical, it was enough to reboot any lost confidence he had.

It was an escape plan. And it was what he was working on right this very second.

After following the monorail for two hours, he had found the tram station where the monorail first began. His heart leapt into his throat with jubilation, he almost wanted to cry with joy. But there naught be a need to cry, this was just the beginning. His plan was quite simple (and unbeknownst to him, a precedent set by a Shinji Mimura, formerly known as Boy #19 in a similarly insane death game set almost exactly one decade earlier, in the land of America's most intimate Eastern neighbor); pack the tram with explosives and cut the line and set it on a crash course to the school and make it like the ending to Fight Club. All the collars are deactivated and everyone who's still alive swims to freedom, simple.

Cut back to the present, Rodney knew he would be hefting shit tons of chemicals and other items to go kablooey, he would need a vehicle of some kind to get around the island easier. A car was absolutely ideal for this, a niche role that was absolutely imperative for his plan. An extra bonus being that he had given his samurai sword to Diane Pye (Girl #13) in the morning, so he was kind of boned when it came to weaponry (not including the bountiful amount of Molotov cocktails he had mind you), a car would protect him from most weapons excluding a bazooka or a big ass gun. But where would he find one? The main town areas seemed to be deserted of cars (minus one on Main Street that was shot full of holes already and missing a mirror), thinking resourcefully though he sought to go to the next best place. The junkyard.

On his way there he saw Jerry Tran a.k.a. Boy #5 looking around wildly with a mummy job of soaked bandages around his neck, as if searching for someone, before disappearing through a buildings back alley. He also saw other students during his travels—including but not limited to: a quivering and red faced Lyra Archer (Girl #25), Michael Yunin (Boy #9) hefting a machine gun in his right hand, Leonard Tagashi (Boy #21) sprinting with a sickle dipped in blood, among other kids. None of it really mattered anyways, this was something he needed to do alone. He couldn't afford the paranoia that came with having another person in with him, shit like this turns normal, nice people like Abby and Toby into bloodthirsty psychopaths. That and if he failed and his leash wound up blowing his head to kingdom come, it would be his undoing and his alone, he didn't want to condemn anyone else to that fate.

On the outer rim of Southern Hillsborough, he was in the motherlode of rusted overhaul. The scrapyard that was the final resting place of many different vehicles, the housings of dilapidated drives. In every car in the junkyard, the engine was either taken apart, the axle was broken, or the keys were missing entirely. After passing by a wrecked and corroded maroon Chevrolet Aveo, he found his boon. This car. He recognized it as the same type of car that was sacrificed in this year's senior prank… a rusty AMC Gremlin. It was the only one in the entire junkyard that was in decent condition (or at the very least not afflicted by any of the above impediments). It was rusty looking, the window was cracked, and the headlights plastic glass was missing, but it was a car. All it needed were the keys. He knew he heard at the jingling clink when he jumped on the cars roof and it shook like clockwork.

Not wasting a second, Rodney swung open the cars door and climbed onto the driver's seat. The glove compartment was bare and the entire car smelled like cat litter. Heaving onto one side, Rodney squeezed his beefy arm between the seat and the glove compartment, trying to find where the keys had landed, if they had ever been there at all. If not, Rodney knew he could always hotwire the friggin thing. One sordid benefit of being in Walters gang and growing up in the streets of New York's ghettos was that hotwiring cars was a guilty skill he had accumulated throughout life's winding and majestic path. Would he need it here though?

Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, Rodney saw light glimmer on the floor of the passenger seat. Shifting his weight over, he reached over and felt around on the matted floor.

The keys had fallen from the mirror above the seat when his weight had shifted the entire car. What was it called? _The towering mirror_? Whatever it was, it didn't matter. With another clink, Rodney's bulky finger hooked around a thin metal ring.

"Booyah!" Rodney cheered like a jolly sports fan, speaking of which as he rotated his New York Yankees cap around his thinning scalp.

Pulling back his hand, he nearly sang out in joy when he saw the rusty-looking pair of keys in his hand. Shaking with excitement with his other hand still caught in the Gremlin's miniscule glove compartment; Rodney managed to shift over to stick the key into the ignition.

For a second, there was a deafening silence as Rodney turned the key with a soft click.

And then, the sound of a revving engine roared through the tiny, rusty car, prepared to move. _Houston, we have liftoff..._

To think, this was all accomplished by a towering black boy who was thought to be far too stupid to come up with the idea he had formulated, _sure showed those motherfuckers_. Here it was, the "nigger" who'd been nearly held back junior year, was going to escape. It has never been so simple.

Though not an avid supporter of the Battle Royale series, he knew well enough that none had ever succeeded at this daunting task before, even those who were much better equipped than him intellectually and in terms of weapons. True, he was not the brightest of minds. Truer still, he only had firebombs he had crafted with several dozen glass bottles in a milk crate just outside of a peaceful little café and siphoned gasoline from three or four decommissioned cars in the seaside resort's parking lot (he thankfully had eluded Mallick's notice from above and therefore was spared a death similar to Shira's), and the most basic of survival supplies to his current name. But still, Rodney knew there was absolutely no way that he was going to fall victim to the game.

Rodney Woodrow now had the only working car on the entire island, and he going to be damned sure to make the best use of it. _Alright now what I need is…_

Rodney chuckled preemptively at what he was about to say, "Soap…"

* * *

Although the pair hiding out in the small home in northeast Hillsborough opted not to turn on any lights within the house, they had made the best of their time in it in a rather homey way. They had raided what few supplies were left in the cupboard, made love a few times in the master bedroom, and spent much of their time luxuriating half-naked (_thank the gods for a working heater_) on the kitchen floor wrapped in a few blankets, smoking weed and splitting a bottle of wine (good stuff too). Aware that their world was liable to end at any moment, they had decided to live it up as best as they could with what the town had to offer. It was a world all their own, about as separate from the game as was possible.

They had concealed all the windows and covered all openings, giving the house the illusion that it where six in the afternoon even though it was still bright as any ideal summer afternoon.

They had found the comfy cot after opting to leave the (now defunct) "Hillsborough Redemption Clinic" as Lyra liked to put it, it was still quite close to the place and Brayden (Boy #17) had provided Lyra and most of the others with his and Morgan (Girl #21)'s respective phone numbers just in case they needed help for any reason. So far, no calls, so all had to be good. He had also recalled giving Lyra and Bonnie two joints each, four between the couple. Seeing as how the were lover's in the exact same scenario as he and Morgan, he saw it perfectly fit to give them something to make their world's better. Normally he would only give drugs to his closest friend. Brayden's wares were quality and a rarity, but this time he was willing to make an exception simply because he knew he would never have the opportunity again, coupled with their overwhelming charity, it was the least he could do. He would've opted to give them his Luger, but considering it was his and Morgan's only form of protection (she being assigned a computer keyboard most certainly didn't qualify as protection) Brayden was paranoid enough when stoned to realize it was tantamount to suicide to freely give away their only weapon.

Now here they were.

"Will Smith was in Enemy of the State with Jon Voight, who was in Deliverance with Burt Reynolds, who was in Strip Tease with Demi Moore, who was in the phenomenal 'Few Good Men with none other than Kevin Bacon. I rule!"

Said Brayden Dillinger, a.k.a. Boy # 17, performing the time tested "raising the roof" maneuver to salute his victory.

"Like that was ever in doubt?" Morgan Zachary, a.k.a. Girl # 21, asked with her warmest of smirks.

"What was in doubt? That I rule or that Kevin Bacon was in A Few Good Men?"

"Well, since it's beyond a doubt that you rule," Morgan continued, "I'd have to say that it's in doubt that Kevin Bacon has found himself a film career after the late 80's to early 90's."

"Damn straight," Brayden responded, taking another puff off his joint.

"How much more of that do you have?" Morgan asked, hardly masking the concern she had for her boyfriend's rapid consumption rate of hash.

"Enough to last out the rest of this thing cruising high as a kite," Brayden said smoothly, running a hand through the greasy hair that stuck out from under his knit cap, "Why, you want some?"

"No," Morgan said as she forced a smile, "I'm fine, just being around you has got me blazed."

She shivered slightly as Brayden let out a toothy grin, Morgan just further scrunched with the blanket around her shoulders.

"It's just..." she trailed off. She wanted to say it, it had made her nervous since the game had started. Yes, she liked to get stoned every so often, but Brayden had been consistently ripped for almost the entire game thus far, and it definitely was not healthy. Well...Morgan had to elaborate, overdosing on pot was not only impossible, but even it were...that was the least of their worries. No, being blazed and not being mentally up to snuff was what worried Morgan to no end. What if Brayden did something rash that got them killed, or somebody came in with ill-intent and they were ill-prepared and both of those ills had an awry run-in and they both got fucked up the ass with a cactus? Huh? _W__hat then..._

"Just what?" Brayden said, trying to open his eyes completely and failing. He knew they were glassy and bloodshot, and right now he wasn't in the mood to have to bear witness to the two-thousand tons of shit the world had shoveled in front of him.

"Are you sure you're ok with being stoned now? I mean, we're going to die here," the words streamed from her mouth without really any thought to them.

"That's all the more reason to get ripped," Brayden said smiling a wide and toothy smile, "I don't want to see what's coming up on me, I just want it all to happen like it happens."

"But don't you want a chance to survive?" she pleaded, "I mean, maybe we can go out there and find someone who is trying to escape?"

"We live through this, we die through this, both pretty good choices. Actually pretty much the only choices, now, ain't they?" Brayden asked idly as put the joint back up to his lips and inhaled briskly.

"But they don't have to be." Morgan implored, "I mean, 'do or die' isn't the only option here. Maybe we can get out of here."

"Really, how?" Brayden asked, getting a bit angry, "How the hell do we get out of here besides through a body bag?"

"Through Mitsumi probably," Morgan said with a shrug, "Or maybe Logan, you know their all good at shit like this, and I know her from all the student council meetings. She's really smart."

"Student council don't mean nothing out here," Brayden responded, putting his joint down. "Out here, it's like if the Ok Corral and the Thunderdome harshly fucked and crapped out an even more fucked up reality that is this fucktopia of diarrhea fuck." Brayden rambled, clearly not bothering to filter any of his profanity.

"Well it means something to me!" Morgan said as she raised her voice, "I joined them because I wanted to be a part of something, to be something bigger than I am, to get involved! What'd you ever do?"

"Nothing! Nada, nil, nothing, is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what you wanted to hear Morgan?" Brayden practically yelled, wrenching the enveloping blanket away from him with a frustrated agitation about him. Getting defensive, Morgan backed away and plopped her seat down into a chair.

"I didn't say that," Morgan responded.

"I'm not smart, but I'm not dumb either. I could stop the dope at anytime, but I don't because it's my decision. Have you ever considered that sometimes my decision might be the right one? If it was up to me, we wouldn't even be here!" Brayden said with more anger as he raised his voice, "It's not my fault that we're here!"

"And it is mine?" Morgan said, hurt.

"Yeah, if it was up to me we would've taken those tickets to Disneyland with those kids from Brook Rivers and eschewed the fucking school trip. We'd have spent the night riding over-packed rides, getting high and finding dark corners to make out. Right about now we'd be back home, having a stack of chocolate chip pancakes at Country Way's, and laughing about what a good time we had. Instead, you wanted to go out and see your friends for one last time, so, yeah, I'd say some of this is your fault."

Morgan sighed and sat down on the cot, burying her face in her hands as she tried not to cry. She knew she loved him, but sometimes his inability to face reality frustrated her. There were just times that he didn't see things for what they were, totally random, or see things in true perspective. When he was ripped he was irrational and paranoid, and putting him in a life or death situation didn't make it any better. She'd seen him worse off before though.

She had these stupid fairy tale imaginings of how everything would be absolutely perfect that night. Sure she was Goth and a straw-nihilist…But hey, It'd be fun and non-traditional, like the dress she had partly made from duct tape to get that scholarship from the duct tape company, but a night to remember nevertheless. It'd be magical, maybe even a fairy tale of sorts if she really got lucky.

Instead, after all those dance fiascos she had to sit for over an hour in Logan Heffley's guest room, caring for him as he came down off a hash and shroom high, pants around his ankles, shoes on his hands, clapping, waddling, and chuckling maniacally as he sang "I clap for the shoe hands... peek-a-boo!" She had humored him until the novelty finally wore off, and he passed out on the futon without so much as a kiss goodnight.

He woke up several hours later shrieking about the things crawling under his skin, causing him to go so far as to use a razor blade to try and cut them out from his skin. Morgan had called the paramedics, and it was almost ruled a suicide... but Brayden was all right. He'd sworn off the hallucinogens and other hard shit since, just sticking to the good old Mary J.

Morgan let a tear roll down her cheek, watching as her boyfriend paced around angrily. As much as it may have been his trademark, sometimes it was too much. Sometimes it became who he was more than the wonderfully sweet person he usually could be. Sometimes it made Morgan doubt the very foundation of why she was with this man...

* * *

They had met during their freshman year in high school. It was lunchtime in the school cafeteria, the largest cultivation of humanity Cold Rivers High had to offer. With skateboards, pompoms and voluminous textbooks clashing with one another as if they were medieval blades and fencing swords as students kept scurrying on their way to unite with friends and respective cliques. Morgan was amongst these students, having fought her way through the lunch line, instead of meeting up with her validated circle of compatriots, she instead accidentally knocked over a scrawny and somewhat stoned guy to the floor and sent his tray flying. She apologized profusely, trying to pile everything back on his tray.

"Sorry," Morgan had said, "I can just be a goober sometimes."

At that, she kept going through the line, paid her way, and found a seat at one of the abandoned lunch tables. Everywhere else, the school's cliques formed, the cheerleaders, the jocks, the skaters, the Asians, the yuppies, the libertarians, and Morgan couldn't bring herself to sit with any of them.

Then came the guy in his punk rock t-shirt and old army jacket, lunch tray in hand and walking on over to Morgan with a nervous smile. Well, he fell over, but he's getting up right now. Anyway.

"Hey, I'm Brayden, I can be a goober too sometimes," he said, "wanna do lunch together?"

"What are you doing here?" Morgan asked, perhaps a bit more rudely than she intended. "I said sorry, didn't I?"

"Well, I'm in a cafeteria table with a tray filled with my lunch so obviously, I'm knitting." The boy replied with a smirk.

Morgan tried to hide her annoyance at his sarcasm, but apparently the scowling was enough to make Brayden look uncomfortable. He then extended his hand towards my direction.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not shaking your hand. God knows where you've been placing your dirty hand."

"Hey, I wash my hands before I eat and I don't make a habit of masturbating on campus." He said defensively.

"Ummm… sorry 'bout that. I'm kinda weird when it comes to first meetings and making acquaintance and stuff… I get nervous and crack terrible jokes and yeah… hahaha…" He said awkwardly.

Morgan's anger and revulsion quickly drained away after Brayden's impromptu apology. How could she be so inconsiderate? After all he was just another freshman just like her who felt awkward with the new surroundings. And already he had to deal with Morgan's insufferable belligerence. _At least he had the guts to talk to me._

Morgan had giggled, apologized some more. And eventually as they sat down at an auspiciously unoccupied table, they began to talk up a storm. At first it was merely idle chat just to torpidly pass things by as conversation. Real perfunctory stuff such as classes and teachers, but gradually they found they seemed to have more in common than they originally realized. Such as tastes in music and movies, and in general compatible philosophy and things they could bitch about with equal vehemence. and they'd been together ever since. It was nice, it was friendly, it was fun, and it felt great.

* * *

The days passed by and they became closer and closer. Sure, the pair had gained more friends from their batch mates, but their friendship at it's core remained strong despite the external social forces. In fact, they were nearly inseperable, which was both funny and annoying at the same time. _Just the way I like it._

Then as was a contingent inevitability, Brayden had asked Morgan, and predictably she had said yes with alacrity.

Things pretty much flew fast after that. Morgan and Brayden had their share of dates. Sometimes they went to some fancy restaurants, or got some sweet treats at the local Sugarcube Corner where their mutual, yet sickly-sweet friend (in more than just one sense) Diane Pye would congratulate them on their romantic union and chat up a storm with the two, sometimes serving as a buffer...other times just being an annoying, yet well-intentioned third wheel. Sometimes they would treat themselves to the delicious simplicity of a Taco Bell drive thru.

When they reached their junior year and even though they didn't end up as classmates that time around, they still remained as strong as ever. When Morgan and Brayden went to junior prom together, unlike the future fiasco that was the Senior one...this one had a much happier ending. Some drugs were involved, but with both parties consenting without dragging the other down, and it was fairly mild shit. They got a bit drunk and lost their virginities at the back of Brayden's old Ford pickup truck afterwards. From then on, high school life was a wild and fun filled ride... but how it would barrel down a cliff straight to the hell that this cataclysm was, neither could have ever imagined...

* * *

And that brings us to now. The Battle Royale was screwed up for most people, but for couples, especially a couple as close as Brayden and Morgan... it would be the worst. They could commit suicide, Brayden had been assigned a pistol (a World War II vintage Luger), one shot to each of their heads would be pretty quick. Not as pretty a way to go as the movies would have liked to make it seem, but as far as she knew, there were worse ways. _Yeah, like Gillian..._

With all fairness, they had discussed it already, but it wasn't going to happen. Life was short enough as is, Brayden had rationalized, might as well spend every moment of it to its fullest. And that they had...

…Looking up as he paced back into the room, she wondered for just a brief moment if she was really better off staying here after all. Maybe, maybe not. But, she still loved him.

"I didn't know..." Morgan finally muttered.

"What?" Brayden asked.

"I didn't know!" she shrieked, "How could I have known? This was done at random!"

"No, no, no," Brayden said as he walked more around the room, "things like this are never random, it can't be, we were chosen for a reason, no, no, no, this doesn't make any sense. This is a government things, and nothing no matter how they want us to think in this whole government is at random. There is a system, there has to be a system to it!"

Brayden practically jumped on his feet with little consideration of his girlfriend as she looked across the room, "There's a system to everything this government does!"

Then and there they heard the sound of glass breaking. Both went conspicuously reticent, neither willing to make a sound for fear of the wrath of their newly discovered intruder...for a few moments anyways.

"Honey," Morgan said hesitantly as her eyes looked to the other side of the room.

"What?" Brayden asked.

"Someone's here," she said, her eyes growing wide with fear.

"You hear where it came from?" Brayden whispered harshly.

"Front door I think. Probably trying to break out a panel to unlock the door." Morgan reasoned.

"Fuck," Brayden said as he stood up, trying to get used to the dimness once again. Having better eyes than her inebriated boyfriend, she could see the very worried look on his face. It basically said, _Yeah, we've got a gun, but so what?_

"They're going to get in here soon," Brayden whispered quickly in his stoner slur, "we can run, we can try to figure out who they are, or we can try and fight 'em. Pick quickly Honey Bunny or we're deader than Elvis."

_Always had a way with words Pumpkin._ No, they couldn't run; they'd die. After a few hours of pretty decent sex with a reasonable hope for more in the near future, they weren't exactly dressed for a cross-country flight through the forest. Besides, she was getting pretty damn tired of running. Maybe it was all of this rumination and indignation of this whole fiasco, but she honestly felt upset enough to not want to cower away and squander their well earned sanctuary.

"We gotta fight," Morgan said resignedly.

"OK," Brayden said as he looked to the front door, probably thinking something terribly chivalrous, before adding, "whoever it is, we got the advantage. We know this house pretty good. We sneak up quiet, you blast them with the flashlights, blind 'em. If it's someone we know, we go up easy. We don't... and I'll take care of things. Sound good?" He may have been high off his ass and didn't like the world he was in now, but this was for Morgan's sake as much as his. He hated reality when stoned, but it seemed paranoia and a gun may very well save the both of them.

"Sounds as good as it's going to get," Morgan responded. They could hear the front door swinging open. _Shit, it's now or never__..._

* * *

"So, that's the whole story, huh?" Carlos Menendez a.k.a. Boy #6 echoed at the information that was rapidly spoken to him, lightly scratching his curly hair as he inquired.

"That just about sums it up." Roger Lombardi a.k.a. Boy #2 confirmed with a weary nod.

Just a half hour ago, Roger had ran away from the smoldering barn sabotaged by Bonnie on a separate tangent from the others. He was among the first to flee from the site and could only idly remember with imperceptible awareness of one or two other kids scattering away in the meadow like playing children. The flare was blinding and caused helter-skelter in a hand-basket, most kids as far as he knew made it out just fine, but it was not like he really stuck around to verify. In any case…it looks like the barn wasn't such a good idea, it trumped a varsity volleyballer turned murderess sure, but now the escape rendezvous was aborted. Roger blamed Mitsumi for the whole fiasco, ill-preparation had really screwed it up.

In any event, Roger hastily explained his entire recollection of the story to the captive audience of two of his close mutual friends: Carlos Menendez and Luke Donahue a.k.a. Boy #1. Things had been almost dead silent before then, requited feelings of grim mourning over the passing of their late friend Anthony Rojas a.k.a. Boy #19 since noon. Roger just seemed to be the perfect guy to fill this body-sized hole within the Greer Manor.

"And after that, I wandered around the northern hills", Roger Lombardi continued, talking rapidly. "and finally stumbled upon here".

"Hmm, so, Bonnie's playing?" Luke asked with the rubbing of his chin.

"Yep, psycho bitch was strangling Lyra until I conked her with my crowbar." Roger cooed, but a cynical frown soon returned to his tan face, "But then she shot a fireball at us."

"Well, lemme tell ya, I know that feeling" Carlos related, turning his cheek and revealing the light burns he received earlier that day with the same exact flare pistol, shot by the same exact Bonnie they both knew and now despised.

"Ouch." Roger said bluntly, "Well, I guess I feel bad for ya, but I'm still glad that'd didn't happen to me, get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I dig, though on the bright side it doesn't hurt much anymore, might make for some badass scars." Carlos joked, getting a light chuckle from Luke and Roger.

"Suppose, perhaps you can become like a Mexican Freddy Krueger or something?" Luke flippantly remarked. "But that won't work, you don't got razor fingers or a fedora."

Carlos amusedly smirked at the blonde pretty boy while Roger chuckled briefly in response, lightly banging his crowbar against the wooden dining room table. Carlos sighed lightly as a transition to his next statement,

"Back to matters at hand however, Mitsumi sent you there?" Carlos asked, intrigued. Out of everyone in the Battle Royale (asides from Logan), the Jap was the most likely to conduct something like this, but of course it botched miserably.

"Yeah." Roger said.

"Why wasn't she there?" Luke interjected before Carlos, trying to get some action in the conversation.

"Beats me." Roger said with a shrug, "Though it really brings my piss to a boil, talk about responsibility in a leader, huh?"

"Yeah, I get bad vibes from Sato as well," Carlos noted in agreement, "you know I saw her and Jerry when I left the bunker, they were talking to each other and she had a military submachine gun in her hands, I can't help but feel like Bonnie's attack was a blessing in disguise."

"What do you mean?" Roger asked, taking a quick swig from a glass of pinot noir that Carlos and Luke had poured four hours earlier from a casket due to a quick venture down into the mansions vast wine cellar.

"Well, I mean, Sato's got a machine gun, and I doubt you guys had much firepower." Carlos prompted, hoping that his companions would get what he was insinuating, they both looked at him blankly.

"Like, she has a bigass gun and a bunch of subservient sheep led in a singular direction in one concentrated area." He said with indignation as he waved around his Walther P99 pistol for effect. "She leads you all in the slaughter house and before you know it, she might really be on her own, calling people to try and get them to come to her like some fucked up pied piper, then she kills them off one by one as they come up, she could easily wrack up a body count. She could've killed off all the people she mentioned so far, been like the ending to Reservoir Dogs."

"True…" Roger stated, starting to see the point in Carlos's logic, "I guess I never thought of it that way, thanks man!"

"No problem, and besides, I didn't save you, I'm just pointing out a secretive benefit to the whole shebang caused by Navarro." Carlos said.

"Guess I gotta thank Bonnie if I get the chance." Roger joked.

So Mitsumi Sato had decided to please the government and take part in the game. It was strange, because she was likely the most vocal in the class, besides Logan, at voicing her displeasure with the government. It was odd she would comply with their rules like this…

"Something doesn't add up", Luke piped up, bemused. "She wouldn't do this…".

"Believe what you want, but he's out there, Donahue".

"Well, I haven't really heard automatic fire coming from everywhere," Luke, ever the voice of reason interjected, "that and if she was really playing, wouldn't her names have rolled on the announcements?"

"Why would it? She might be a prude bitch, but she's also smart as fuck." Carlos grittily spat, "She knows she can't break cover due to the impartial announcements, and also there's only been two of them, too damn early to make a call."

"I suppose, but still, she may be a prude at times, but she's not a killer." Luke defended with uncertainty in his mind. "No one is that calculating."

"Well, she could if she were a serial killer now, couldn't she?" Roger said with a malevolent grin on his face.

Luke sighed, it was a lose-lose argument against these two, despite the fact Roger was one of her best lieutenants in the past; he seemed so easy to distrust her now, why? Was it because everything was so easy earlier, but now that some complications have arisen, now is when he breaks? _Talk about loyalty huh, just when we should all be coming together, we break apart instead, form our little tribes like vigilante warriors._

"Whatever, I still think you should call her up." Luke said with a hint of finality, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a fucking drink." He said resignedly, his snub-nosed revolver gleaming in the four o'clock afternoon sun. He languidly got out of his chair and shambled out of the dining room, making his way to the wine cellar's staircase. A drink would be nice to take some of the edge off; but it was a superficial luxury, not really contingent for anything, more of an excuse really; he just needed some seconds to be alone. _It's all bullshit, Mitsumi knows what she's doing, just because there were some ghosts in the machine doesn't mean she plans on killing. Why do those two have to be so quick to jump the gun and assume the worst, can they not see the bigger picture? As much as they're fun and cool to be around, goddamn can they be slow…_

"Idiots…" Luke solemnly muttered under his breath as he descended the ancient wooden stairs, a new creak made with every step.

Ignoring the encroaching darkness, Luke glanced at his cheap watch. Every tick- barely audible under the emphatic squeaking of the aged wood- meant another second under the wrath of the program. Any of those seconds, any of his classmates could be gone. Cold Rivers High Senior Class of '09 was slowly declining even faster than those seconds. His mind sung to him, naming every one of his classmates and matching them to those ticks.

_Tick…David…._

_Tick…Mickey…_

_Tick…Melissa…_

_Tick…..Anthony…_

Who would join with the seconds next? Carlos? Roger? Mitsumi? Bonnie? Himself? The possibilities were endless, but it all boiled down to one truth.

Everyone's time was running out. All for but one. Who, one may ask? Only more time would tell, and oh boy would it be a spectacle, one that wouldn't cease to amaze Luke, or anyone else…

* * *

Brayden led silently, his bare feet making hardly a noise as he walked down the wood-paneled hall to the living room. Despite the weight advantage she held over her boyfriend, Morgan kept up with equal swiftness. It would be the first death either of them would see in the game, but it would keep them alive. _A necessary evil. _The thought offered little comfort to the girl.

They could see a figure holding a pipe-like object in both hands while fidgeting uncontrollably. It was a little chilly out there sure, but not enough where you would shiver to this immense degree. The figure was dressed in a grey hoodie, shaking while murmuring under it's breath. The frame looked feminine. Anyone alone in the game had to be considered dangerous, that was the only way they could look at it. They didn't see Brayden and Morgan coming, but the couple could see each other. Looking to her boyfriend, Morgan nodded. _Here goes nothing._

Flipping the switches to both their flashlights on at the same time, Morgan aimed them to quickly blind the girl standing in the foyer. She yelped in surprise, quickly firing off a shot from whatever gun she held in her hands that peppered Morgan in the chest with buckshot and knocked her to the floor very dead.

"Morgan!" Brayden shrieked, trying to shoot back at the murderer who stood before him. Had his light still been good, it would have been a clear shot at the killer. Instead, as Morgan had dropped her flashlights, his shots went wild. Perhaps even without the additional flashlight irradiating the room, Brayden may still have been able to take down the murderer with little difficulty. But given how buzzed he was, some may've considered it a sort of poetic irony given in life Brayden's inebriated state was his trademark, but now his lack of sobriety was arguably the reason he would lose his life.

Three bullets that spat out of Brayden's Luger hit nothing but air. A fourth smashed the framed family portrait of those who had lived in the house before the Battle Royale took it from them. Seeming to have regained their composure, the killer fired off two more quick blasts from their shotgun. The roar in the small house was deafening, flame seeming to shoot from the weapon in the darkened room. Miraculously under the circumstances, both shots managed to hit Brayden. The first blew off most of his left foot, while the second hit him in the gut. The boy first fell to his knees, then onto his face before moving no more, Cold River High's class stoner had been officially taken out of the Battle Royale as the tenth casualty, immediately after his Goth girlfriend.

The house was silent for a long time before Judith Henriksen, a.k.a. Girl # 12, finally pulled the hood of her hoodie down. The room stank of blood and gunpowder, the bodies of Brayden and Morgan laying splayed out on the floor almost lewdly considering their half-naked state.

"Holy shit," she murmured as she felt bile rising in her throat. _It was an accident, they surprised me, I just wanted to be warm, they didn't have to do that. I just wanted to be warm, grab some food, they surprised me and I killed them. Accident, right. No wait, no, it wasn't an accident, I'm playing the game! I just killed two more! I'm really playing this now, they'll have to look at me as one of the good guys, right? I'm doing what I'm supposed to do!_

Overpowered by the stench of the house's brief battle, exhaustion (partly coming from the need to find a new house since this one would probably draw fire), and sheer terror, Judith bent over double and vomited all over the floor.


	25. Hour 16: 40 Contestants Remaining

It was like something out of a horror movie. Not that the girl had ever seen a horror movie (_way too gross_), but in her imagination it was pretty much what she thought one would look like, _or a Battle Royale…but wait, you're in one, so of course this isn't too extraordinary. _The living room may have been cheery and comfortable at some point, the girl standing in the middle of it, but the place was bathed in blood with two corpses being the source of it. Blood was dripping everywhere and on near every close surface, it was dripping which obviously meant it was fresh. The area still reeked of acrid gunpowder, blood, vomit and oddly enough…fresh pot.

She remembered idly hearing in boring ass bio class that the human nose could apparently recognize up to 10,000 individual scents, well, apparently this was true considering all the different odors pervading the house like a filthy virus. She didn't even want to know what other lingering signatures there were here. She frightfully looked at the two shirtless corpses on the floor, one of them was easily Morgan Zachary. The other cadaver was face down, but the shitty smell surrounding him and the knit cap was unmistakable, it had to be Brayden.

It took all of Pamela Ridley a.k.a. Girl #18's reserve and then some to keep from having a complete breakdown, she initially upchucked on the houses porch and also let a few tears roll, but by God she would not lose it. No way, no how, once she found Lily she could let it all out. She had to survive, there was just no other way around it. _Deal with it you little bitch._

Part of her originally wanted to just flee and make a run for it like she usually did in life, but this situation was so bad that she could only stare in horror. Part of her also wanted to know exactly what the hell had happened, but the other part was so full of grim fascination with all of the horrors she had seen that she didn't want to know. But of course this was only the beginning, more bad things were sure to come.

"_If you got bad news, you wanna kick them blues; cocaine._" Pamela dazedly sang to herself, it was the best way she could cope with this situation, and it oddly seemed to be working, _Lily loves this song; just think of her and everything else will resolve itself. _"_When your day is done and you wanna run; cocaine…_"

Once the noon announcement had dawned four hours earlier, she now knew it as unsuitable to continue staying in the post office. She had watched an intense gunfight between Nick Delaney against Vicky Sanchez and Octavia Manago from out the window, it was scary and barebones brutal. They fought like gladiators with peashooters, thankfully though nobody died. She didn't like any of them much, and maybe in the grand scheme of things if one of the predators had been vanquished it would've been easier for her, but no, she did have a thing called empathy.

Shambling along the towns residential district, she had heard talking, moaning (_Were Jack and Morgan busy with THAT when someone surprised them? Ewww._), a massive blast of thunder, then a barrage of pistol pops, quickly silenced by two more ear-splittingly loud booms coming from one of the houses. She had wondered if it could've been Lily and someone else in there, she knew it was stupid and the odds of such a happenstance to be infinitesimally small, but as her mother liked to tell her while braiding her hair, hope was one of the best things to have in any circumstance.

She found the house, but by then the noises had stopped. She watched the building with hesitation, waiting to see if there were anyone still around inside. Not but five minutes later, she watched the traumatized Judith Henriksen, a.k.a. Girl # 12, stumble away. She had been crying, her mouth was ringed with puke. She had been attacked, but she had won. Or was it the other way around? She had a shotgun in her hands that she held loosely accompanied by two belts of shotgun shells crisscrossing her chest like the mark of Zorro.

And so with that in the past, here Pamela was, standing over the remains of the stoner and pseudo-Goth couple. The story was easy to tell, they and Judith got into a fight of some kind, and Judith wound up blowing the both of them away with a shotgun. The basketball sized hole in Morgan's sternum and the missing foot and massive puddle of blood underneath Brayden's shirtless form really told Pamela all she needed to know. It was gruesome and saddening, it most definitely made things very real now, as real as they were going to get. It was strange, even though in life Pamela found the duo to be quite undesirable, Morgan being short, squat and something of a bitch while Brayden being the uncharismatic hippie who seemed to try too hard to fit in with the erudite stoner cliché. Though now in death, the pair seemed to elicit some sadness, and also disgust from the former popular girl.

As she continued to grimly exam their remains, her eyes suddenly shimmered when she spotted a pistol near Brayden's corpse, a vintage and near-century old one, but a gun nevertheless. Pamela did her best to avoid direct contact with the gratuitous blood and various other grisly gunk splattered around it. Holding a hand over her mouth to cut down the stench of the body, she delicately scooped up the Luger that remained surprisingly clean. It looked weird as hell and as she could guess it was likely a bajillion years old, but it still was a gun, a whole lot better sight then her police truncheon or stiletto knife.

She ogled the weapon with grateful, almost worshipping eyes just before stuffing the gun into her snake-embossed belt. Learning to use it would take some time, but upon discovering Brayden and Morgan's packs placed on a nearby sofa and nicking the extra bullets and instruction manual from Brayden's bag, she could only help but think it won't take some long after all. Sure these supplies may be ungainly, but hey, it's not like either of them would need it ever again.

She also spotted the massive quantity of marijuana stashed in as well, but since Pamela didn't smoke pot (pot-smoking doesn't fit with being a brat packer now, does it? Cigarettes yes, weed no.); therefore she saw no use to take it, it was undesirable for her, so she let it be.

She knew she had a few options. Change seemed like the best one. Still, she couldn't quite manage to figure that one out yet. She made a vow to do it in due time. Besides that, the only thing left to do was run. _You're born to run, right girl? Don't worry Lily, I'll find you!_

Pamela tightened her grip on her Luger and ran out the doorway. Just one more hour would be a hell of an accomplishment.

* * *

Andre Sullivan, a.k.a. Boy # 24, was dying. Not literally of course, although it certainly felt it after running as long as he had. He was neither the fastest nor the spryest of his classmates, and at 245 pounds he would have made an excellent target. But he kept moving. He probably ran more in the first sixteen hours of the Battle Royale than he had in his entire life, and it felt like hell. But he was still alive, and if running kept him alive, then he was all right. Staying in one place... that kind of scared him.

He had almost stayed at the junkyard for refuge, but it was the graveyard to several cars, mostly pick-up trucks, that were scattered about the junkyard like lost souls-he didn't stay for long. Andre knew a lot about being lost, considering he had practically felt lost his entire life. Due to the fact that he had been held back a year because of his grades, his other classmates were technically a year younger than he was. Despite it only being a year, he found he couldn't relate to any of his classmates, and for the most part it was all good. They didn't trust him, and he didn't trust them back. Some may have considered that kind of thinking to be overly pragmatic and cynical, and that would've made him a hardass and a loner, and they probably would've been right. He was prone to fights and often did things on his own, he simply wouldn't have had it any other way (_at least right now_). _Nobody understands me, I only believe in one man, well, and one woman…_

It had all started because of a simple decision. He had chosen to go to the art hall during summer school to pick up a painting he had left behind during the year. It was amazing how something as trivial as that could have made an impact on his whole life. Still, it had….

It had been right after he had discovered he was being held back for a year. He had begged and pleaded with his parents, saying it wasn't worth it and he would try his best to work harder, but they all knew even summer school wouldn't help. With no choice, Andre had quietly decided on repeating his first year of high school and looking like a complete idiot to all of the sophomores.

Pushing open the barred door of E106, one of the art rooms, with his Walkman blaring hard rock music, he had quickly flicked on the lights. Everything had been packed up for the end of the year, but luckily, hadn't removed the framed projects from the wall. Quickly finding his canvas, he had been prepared to leave when he had noticed that he wasn't the only one in the room. Along with that, he had just run into what was possibly the worst case of luck in the world.

Randy Dalton, a senior, was already a known psychopath. Along with keeping blades, drugs, and extremely graphic pictures taped in his locker, the one thing that made him stand out from everyone else was the blue-inked swastika he had self-applied onto his forehead. Although many people thought of him as one, he detested the term, "skinhead". He viewed himself as a, "cleaner". Nobody really understood what he meant by that, but Andre, although not very smart, had enough common sense to avoid him.

At that moment, he had been in the corner of the room, sketching on a canvas with a dim light bulb hanging above him. Now that the light had somewhat focused on him, Andre realized he was drawing a purple and white field of flowers. His eyes were staring blankly at the canvas, almost like he expected it to come to life. _Who let him in school anyway? The year's over! I checked with the lady at the front desk to come in! Why the hell would she decide it's okay for somebody like him to come in?_

"Keep the door closed, lardass", he said harshly.

Gulping, Andre had quickly heaved his weight into the barred door of E106 and let it shut. Out of all the people he could have run into, out of all the times he could have walked down to pick up his damn drawing, he had to have run into Randy Dalton, the maniac of Cold Rivers High? Most people would have thought this wouldn't have been a problem for somebody like Andre, considering how much of a weight advantage he had over Randy, but no, at the time Andre was a giant pussy. He still was to this day, it just didn't show over his jackass façade.

"You're Andre Sullivan", Randy sneered. "The dumb faggot who was held back for two years? How old are you? Almost seventeen and still a freshman, huh? That's really letting down your parents. Do you know how hard they work to raise you to do your best? That's _pissing_ right on all of their hopes and dreams. But you don't care, do you? Isn't that right?"

"Yeah", Andre gulped, powerless to say anything. "I guess it is".

He talked with a slight Southern drawl that almost made him look insane with his one unfocused eye. Advancing on Andre, and have completely forgotten about his painting of the purple flowers, he had charged like an angry bull at him. Putting up only his canvas to protect himself, he prepared for the worst. They always sensed weakness in him, and when they did, they took advantage of it. Maybe they thought it was funny that somebody nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, almost like a whale, could cower in fear like that.

"I'll clean you u-"

The door to the room had opened again. A mousy-looking tan girl, petite with round glasses, was standing in the light from the hallway. Her face was expressionless, but past that, she was completely innocent looking like a child. Walking toward the oncoming fight, she had stared down Randy with her blank eyes. He couldn't punch her. He may have been insane, but not heartless enough to mow down such a sacredly pure looking girl.

She stared. "Why are you doing this? What could this accomplish besides wanting to just punch another person later? The only thing that hate breeds is hate."

Less than half a minute later, Randy, the basket case of Cold Rivers High, had left the room in confusion to return to summer school. It wasn't that he hadn't had a comeback to the girl, but it was more along the lines that he…well…didn't know how to hurt somebody like that. After reassuring her several times that he was okay (and feeling plentifully embarrassed by being comforted by a tiny girl that was two years younger than him) he had finally let her introduce herself.

"Got a name?"

"I'm Filomena Contadino , but Fil and Mena are so stupid, so please call me Lomi." She commented cheekily. "I'm an exchange student from Florence, Italy and I'm a cousin of a boy named Roger from around these parts, do you know him?" she asked with a cheerful smile and with innocent chocolate-brown eyes intently staring at Andre. He nodded, he did in fact know Roger Lombardi.

"Oh goody-goody!" Lomi excitedly exclaimed, "But that aside, I'm really sorry about what happened. Maybe you just get angry too easily. You have to just learn that everyone's good on the inside".

"Okay…"

An awkward silence. After that, he had done what seemed like the only sensible thing left.

"I'm Andre".

She smiled, and with slight hesitation, managed to help him up from the ground. Lomi would enjoy just the things they would – of course, she did study too, but in her spare time, she was an amazing, smiley girl.

The girl he had always dreamed of.

A few days after her arrival, he already volunteered to accompany her around the city when Roger was busy, and soon they began to meet almost every day, even when her cousin had nothing to do. Naturally as members of the opposite gender tended to do when they got this attached to one another, they eventually hit it off as a couple. Their dates hadn't been extravagant either. If it was simply a walk through the park or talking in the local coffee shop, it was an equivalent to a dinner at a five-star restaurant. They would just talk…and talk…and talk…

Three days after they began dating they felt comfortable holding hands in public, a week after they had their first kiss (which was something of an awkward spectacle considering that he was at least three heads taller then her and _much _larger), it may have been a bit foreign at first to both parties involved, but still, it was nevertheless dream-like in his opinion.

It was almost three years later that they were walking hand in hand on the dark streets after an evening out at the movies, it was a laughably bad romantic-comedy featuring the same tepid, offensively inoffensive pretty boy and pretty girl actors hamming it up on screen, but with Lomi around, it may as well have been the leviathan of cinematic masterpiece. Once it finished and they were out in the chilly night of Cold Rivers, It was getting dark and a little bit too cold.

"I think I'll catch a taxi," said Lomi. "It's so late, and Roger is waiting for me..."

Andre nervously shifted from one foot to another. Perhaps it was too early for that. Lomi would probably slap him and run to get her taxi. But still… it was a Friday, and neither of them had classes the next day...and his loving mother was gone for the night for "reasons" of her own, likely not too dissimilar from what he wanted to do this night.

"Um, Lomi?" he asked "my place isn't far from here, can't we…"

_Oh fuck!_

He had just asked a girl to spend the night with him in his tiny, indigent apartment with his bedroom that was hardly the size of two closets.

"Sorry! I… I didn't mean…" Andre stammered anxiously. _Oh fuck, oh shit! I really fucked it up now!_

Lomi's eyes widened, then she looked down, kicking a large fallen leaf.

"_Si_" she whispered "_andiamo._ Let's go." She then looked back up tenderly at Andre, her cocoa eyes seemingly sparkling like divine pools of water collected from the heavenly reservoirs. Her face, while always beautiful, seemed picture-perfect in this moment of crystal clarity. It was so serenely beautiful that it seemed ideal to have it etched in immortal portraits illustrated by only the most ineffable artists of all time, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Van Gogh?

They both knew what this meant… Their first times. Originally after being a couple for so long they initially felt like saving it for marriage, but hey, hormones get you every time.

It was a very awkward awakening in the morning, and in all honesty it was less then ideal during the actual act of love-making, but that was mitigated by the sheer amount of infatuation they had for one another. Yeah, doing it for the first time, even if it was with someone you loved was still awkward as hell and admittedly short and sloppy. This didn't matter though, he still loved her very much. And the way she always looked at him told him she felt the same way too. They spent the night together three more times – then it was time for her to leave.

Andre told himself their story had to end, even as Lomi was calculating plane ticket prices between Seattle and Florence. They exchanged phone numbers, e-mail and postal addresses, promised to write to each other. Lomi really hoped this would last. Andre hoped so too – but found it too hard to break away from her like that. To find happiness and let it slip away. He tried to shield his heart, to protect himself – he did not want to feel heartache. And found the most cowardly way to do it. _Better to forget it. Maybe if we see each other again in a few years' time… but not now. I am so young… I have so much to do… I…I love you, Lomi. But I need to let this go._

God how fucking stupid and selfish was he?

Lomi boarded the plane with tears in her eyes. She called Andre at a reasonable time even when she was back to Italy, but he never answered. Not a reply came to her e-mails either.

_I don't want you to suffer, Lomi. Just believe I'm some bastard who used you. Please, it'll be easier for both of us._

But there was no way to erase the starlit night they cuddled in bed, whispering words as old as time in all of their sentimental genesis. Singing song lyrics to one another, Lomi had taken a great liking to classic rock bands from America and England. R&B and Soul he recalled was her favorite genre of music, Bill Withers, Earth Wind and Fire, Ray Charles, Sly & the Family Stone, so on and so forth.

If burning the bridges with Lomi – and thus, with Roger and his friends (who witnessed the whole thing as well) too – wasn't enough, what he did afterwards in order to forget and move on, pretending everything was all right, was even worse, and definitely made Roger his enemy. He decided to become public enemy number one, a bully. No one would think he had a heart to break if he acted like he didn't have one, bullying eventually became something of a vice and even began to feel…dare he say it…good.

Ignoring the heartache, he wished her the best. He did not know how she hugged her pillow at night, her love for him still strong. He did not know how she could think of no other guy, how she still remembered his promises. He did not know how many times she asked Roger why didn't Andre answer her e-mails or calls. When Roger himself came to ask him, he said:

"But it's over."

He knew most of all it wasn't.

Relieving his heartache and anguish on others was an emotional release, it kept others away and made sure that the whole situation with Lomi would never repeat itself. Things were good at first, but on one faithful day as so many novels tended to open with, he got a message that he simply couldn't ignore…remembering the contents of the online email after apprehensively checking his inbox…he felt about a million times worse. Thinking back to that, knew he had to play now.

He didn't want to allude to it directly, he always thought of it as, he didn't want to repeat history…he didn't want to repeat history, history with his own absent father. It was official now, he was a soon-to-be father and due to his own absent father Andre now intended to do whatever it took to make it out alive and be there for Lomi. He may have fucked up in the past and tried to isolate himself from love, but now there was no excuse, no way could she raise the baby on her own. He _had _to be there for him (her gynecologist said the fetus was a boy), no matter the cost…

…But running was beginning to take its toll. After sixteen hours on his feet, trying to find some semblance of safety, if just to sit down for a few minutes, didn't sound too bad. Might have prevented a heart attack at the very least, right? At that he could only laugh. If there was one person who would die in a Battle Royale of natural causes, he'd probably be at the top of the list. _Ah well, so it goes. _In all truth, he wanted to make it where natural causes weren't the only modes of death on this island. Well, maybe not _wanted _per se, more like _needed_.

He still saw _her_ in his dreams every single night.

_If I win…_

_I'll have to kill…_

_If I survive…_

He _had_ to survive. He had a goal now. First thing to do when he got out was buy a plane ticket to Florence with his reward money, marry Lomi, then raise their love child together. He'd be a multi-millionaire so financially he would have nothing to worry about.

_Don't worry Lomi, I may've been a fuck up in the past…and well…still am, but I'm gonna do anything and everything I can to make it up, starting with winning this thing. I'm gonna make sure our little boy has the daddy his father never had… _

With a eye full of tears and a weak little smile, Andre continued to jog through the grassy knoll, panting heavily and hoping as many people would die as possible so he wouldn't have to do it for them.

* * *

As it turned out, Rain Forscythe a.k.a. Girl #15 had been wrong. When she had diagnosed Nicole Gates, Girl #23's wounds sustained from Nick Delaney and his Beretta 92, she hadn't got the location exact, one had struck her liver dead center, the other had managed to pierce her stomach, it was most certainly _not _a flesh wound after all. Despite being in unbelievable agony and with one foot in the grave, the latter girl was in reasonably high spirits and being supported on Rain's back like a human pack-mule, Rain had her crossbow cradle in both arms while Nicole's driver was protruding out of her bag.

They had gotten to an infirmary and Nicole downed some analgesics (_heh, anal_) along with some Makers Mark from Rain's personal flask to sedate the girl. Rain tried her best to patch up the gunshot wounds but the internal bleeding was still as much a detriment as the external. After receiving the call from Mitsumi Sato (Girl #5) though, he had sought to get her butt over to the barn ASAP. Of course leaving Nicole behind to die was out of the question, even though she really was DOA now. She had bled copiously for hours. For a while Rain thought she had it controlled, but being the human body that she was, Nicole just kept on pumping, her blood leaking out in a thin trickle that really added up after a while.

She was dying. It may be another hour or another day, but she was dying, and it sickened Rain that there was nothing she could do about it. She was hurting, slowly bleeding to death, and there was nothing she could do. Nicole's skin was as pale as porcelain with a light sheen of cold sweat covering her, glistening in the bright orange sun. Her eyes were sunken in circles of blackness, the normally bright blue eyes staring through were only half opened. The paleness of her skin stuck out in stark contrast to the bright red mist of blood that stained the back of her hand. Nicole had been piggybacking on Rain's shoulder for almost two hours now and while Rain was a strong, athletic young woman, this was quite strenuous even for her (even if she didn't want to admit it).

Nicole for the most part was silent aside from her subtle wheezing and the rhythmic dry cough. Every so often she would lapse back into consciousness and scream or give another apocalyptic speech of sorts in her sarcastic way, it was really dismaying.

"I really don't want to piggyback on you anymore." Nicole commented after a long period of dreary silence. "It feels demeaning and probably isn't good on you."

"No, it's no big deal." Rain immediately grunted, nearly letting her shoulder slip under Nicole's weight, even if she was previously anorexic and thin as a twig, she still proved to be a impediment to Rain's movement speed. "You're really hurt anyways, I think since I can't fix the popped caps in you I figure I can at least help you get over to the rendezvous, you dig?"

"Yeah." She said weakly. "But I still think we'd go faster if-" she stopped to cough up a thin mist of blood that passed by Rain's ear. Rain had gotten used to the uproarious cacophony of Nicole's bloodied groaning by now, but it still did nothing to improve either of their spirits. "If I just got off." she finished.

"No way Jose, you're way too fucked up to walk on your own." Rain said.

"Well, then at least instead of you lugging me around like a mule, I can just walk using your shoulder as a crutch?" Nicole pointed out. "It's less demeaning and it'll ease my guilt and your-" Nicole coughed once more, "It'll make you less tired."

Nicole could see the normally boisterous and confident aura of Rain Forscythe diminish with every passing minute, she was growing fatigued and losing the warrior vibe she used to always carry with her around school and upon when she rescued her from Nick in the first six hours of the game. Much of the energy was gone, yet she still carried on. Rain didn't speak for a few seconds before answering.

"Okay, sure, if you think you can do it. But if you can't, then you're coming right back up."

"Okay" Nicole said. Nicole tentatively inched her feet to the ground before stepping down from Rain's mighty unhooked arms. It felt like a steep fall despite only being a foot or two, Nicole gasped emphatically as she began hurting some more.

"Are you okay?!" Rain asked urgently.

"I-I'm good." Nicole assured as she threw her arms around Rain and lopsidedly limped at her pace.

They continued to trudge through the illuminated forest. In all truth she was a little bit frightened at the labyrinth of trees in her path, sure it was light out, but in a few hours it won't. And at the pace they're going, it's as slow as damn snails! Also the prospect that something can be lurking, around and behind every corner or even within the trunks themselves. Scary shit.

Hell, the trees themselves were horrifying. The trees had scared Rain. She was a city kid through and through, never once having gone to the country before in her life. True, there were skyscrapers that towered over even the greatest of trees over in Seattle, but there was something about the trees being alive... It was like they were living, breathing towers watching over benevolently and offering protection when they could.

Then again, Rain also remembered reading a statistic that claimed that more people were killed annually by trees or things falling off trees than snake bites, spider bites and shark attacks combined. Any comfort level the trees offered immediately left. Yeah, it was time to get the fuck out of dodge.

"Hey, what're you thinking about?" Nicole's raspy voice shot out, shaking Rain from her thoughts.

"I…Umm, what?" Rain asked confusedly.

"I said 'what're you thinking of'?" Nicole repeated.

"Oh, umm, just-" _Don't say fear of trees, don't say fear of trees. _She mentally screamed,"Just those who have died so far, and those who I may or not see back home."

"Well, I guess great minds think alike, eh?" Nicole sarcastically remarked with the pain still present in her voice.

"I suppose, just sucks Violet bit it so early, couldn't join in with the escape." Rain said with a hint of unaffected sadness, "She may have been a bitch at times, but she was still alright in the end."

Nicole herself sniffled, "Yeah, I know how that feels." She grimly noted, a nod to her recently deceased friend Melissa Kimble, a.k.a. Girl #7; Rain felt a twinge of guilt at that notion and immediately made to provide some closure.

"Yeah, Violet may have been a hassle and way too OCD about makeup, but she still was cool…" She sighed. "…Look, I'm really sorry over Melissa, I'm sorry I didn't stop that prick Nick in time and save her." Rain stifled an ugly giggle, one that only corpses could make. "Fuck, I didn't even save you. Or Violet. Probably won't even be able to save myself. What kinda hero would I be?"

"Well, you've already saved my ass." Nicole reminded, "Besides…you shouldn't always think about being the hero, sometimes you should choose based on your own values system, not what others may be."

Rain got a pensive expression as she unconsciously ground to a halt. She cogitated on the words further, trying to interpret what Nicole meant. _My own values system? That IS my values system._

Rain was normally the kind of person to argue with contention with further contending of her own, but she was in too low of a mood to really squabble. She sort of just took it in instead. After some time of silence, Nicole again spoke.

"I've been thinking about back home a lot", Nicole said. "It's sort of calming me down. Either that or it's making me go crazy. I guess either one is better than sitting here and doing nothing."

"What have you been thinking about?" Rain asked, trying to keep her melancholy away, take away from the crippling depression.

"Pretty much everything", Nicole said. "Everybody that's dead and the way they used to be. Teachers that I had back in middle school. Comic books I read back when I was only old enough to look at the pictures". She paused. "I've thought about my dad a lot too."

"I've been thinking about my family too", Rain said solemnly. "I just hope to God they're not watching me and right now, my mom already has Lynn to grieve about." Rain paused for a second, thinking of a way to get the topic off her, "Do you get along well with your dad?"

"He left when I was little", Nicole said finally. "I live with my mom."

"That sucks", Rain said. "Do you remember him at all?"

"Not really", Nicole said dismissively. "I mean, he left when I was really young. I never really cared enough to think about him. I mean, having a relative who walked out on you is better than having one who died in the program, right?"

"Do you remember anything?" Rain inquired. It looked like the program was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

"I remember growing up on the beach", Nicole responded. "That was the first place we lived before we moved around and everything. I guess my family used to have a lot of money before they split up. I remember my dad tossing me up in the air in the ocean and catching me. I think about the smell a lot – salt water, I mean. It's sort of an important thing to me. Makes me feel safe, I guess."

"Things must have been better back then", Rain noted. "Not just for you. For everyone, really."

"He told me something though", Nicole said. "That's the only thing I remember about him. I remember one day he took me out to the ocean and was throwing me and up and down like he always did. I guess it must have been pretty close to when they divorced because my mom wasn't at the beach with us – maybe she just wanted to give him a chance to say goodbye to me or something. The water was pretty cold that day so it must have been late in the summer. I remember after a few times of throwing me into the air, he stopped and told me something". She paused. "Christ, it's weird that I can even remember it. It was such a long time ago."

"What did he tell you?'

"He told me not to get myself hurt", Nicole said. "He told me the world was changing and he wanted me to do whatever I could to not get hurt. He told me that the world was going to change soon and I had to do whatever I could to stay alive – he told me to do everything I could to keep myself happy."

"You can't always act like that", Rain said. "What's life if you don't take risks?"

"It's not a world I want to live in", Nicole said uncomfortably. "I just want to live."

Suddenly, as if on cue, Nick Delaney a.k.a. Boy #23 bounded onto the scene like a madman with a wicked grimace and wildly popped shots, with aim as simple as point and click it came as a surprise that he missed Rain in her entirety yet instead managed to further wound Nicole as she suddenly clasped her chest and began to breathe shallowly as pain exploded all over her chest. It looks like Nick would nullify Nicole and her father's wishes.

"SHIT!" Rain yelled as she dragged Nicole by her forearm away from the gunshots that caused holes to kick up dirt and tree bark every which way. Sprinting on pure adrenaline, Rain ran her fastest sprint, which by her standards was Olympian worthy. Even hanging on to the lean girl was a feat to the wounded Nicole as Rain outpaced Nick.

"Are you hit?" Rain asked, starting to get in her zone with a hearty sweat.

"I'm fine," Nicole replied, "Just get me the hell out of here."

Nick continued to ring shot's out after the two girls, nailing trees and air, but no people. He coulda sworn that he hit one of the girls just now, he hoped it was that Rain bitch, kicked his ass and prevented him from killing Nicole earlier. This must be a sign from the gods, giving him the opportunity to not only seek his revenge upon the track girl with the prismatic hair, but to finish off that girl with Melissa earlier. All in one convenient bundle! Wasting the clip, he ejected it and frantically reloaded while nervously looking at the thing. He had maybe, what, forty shots left? That wasn't enough to last the rest of the game. Shit, at the rate he was going that wasn't enough to last the rest of the job! _Fuck, they're getting away!_

Focusing his eyes through his rimless glasses he fired a two-round burst, eliciting some yelps from somewhere ahead. _Perfect._

* * *

Another gunshot tore bark from a nearby tree, throwing wooden shrapnel in Rain's face as she ran by. As the pain intensified, Nicole stumbled to the ground, then quickly back up to her feet.

"Come on Blondie," Rain said quickly as he helped pull the other girl to her feet and behind a tree, "You ain't dying here."

"Yeah, I am," the pale girl said with a bit of a smile, a bloody one. Looking to the steadily widening red dot on the lower left side of her chest (above the other scabbed two). She'd caught the bullet instead of Rain and wasn't too proud about it, but at least her friend was all right. That much Rain was thankful for.

"Oh my god!" Rain exclaimed, looking over her shoulder quickly before attending to Nicole's wounds, "We seriously need to haul ass and get you out of here!"

Nicole simply pushed the girl's hands away and let out a soft smile. "No, no, leave me and get the hell out of here."

"But-"

"I'm done for," Nicole coughed before continuing. "I'm not surviving this, Rain, but you sure as hell can."

Looking up with slightly glazed eyes, Nicole smiled to Rain. "You take care of yourself and get your sorry ass out of here and to the meeting. I'll try and hold him off-"

She coughed unrepentantly with a light mist of blood, then wiping her lips, she spat, "I'll try and hold him off for as long as I can. Now get out."

She pushed himself off of the tree, watching as Rain took hesitant steps back. Rain looked resigned to what he had to do, though honestly didn't care for it. Her lip uncharacteristically quivered as Rain flashed a rare look of sadness and regret at Nicole, completely unfitting on a girl normally as cocky as Rain.

"Get out!" Nicole yelled with a pained look, "RUN!"

Rain flashed an affirmative nod started to walk away faster, gradually that evolved into a jog, then into a sprint. Just before Rain disappeared through a thicket of bushes among the trees, she looked over her shoulder one last time at the girl at death's door that she failed to save. Rain sniffled from the tension chilling her bones and astonishingly found herself mouthing a silent prayer before remorsefully disappearing through the forest.

_Some hero you are._

* * *

Nicole winced in pain as she watched the savior that needed saving run away into the winding willows. She'd have smiled if she could, but at the moment things were a bit more complicated. She'd been shot in the chest, she was dying, as if the bullets to her stomach and liver weren't enough, quite a bit of overkill, huh? Nick was chasing them, and Rain needed a head start, she was perfectly healthy and had a far better chance of escaping then she. Nicole thought she could at least pull off a badass last stand like movie heroes, she figured it would give the remainder of her limited existence some purpose; she had come to terms with her inevitable death faster then she could've possibly expected.

She closed his eyes, focusing away from the pain as she pulled the blood sodden sweater off from her body and tossed it to the side, leaving her in a maroon stained t-shirt and her sporting bra underneath. Reaching around her neck, she pulled free the small gold cross from its chain. She wrapped the chain tightly around her fingers, kissing it gently as she closed her eyes tighter. _Lord, give me the strength and speed to do what I must and save those who need saving._

She felt for her unzipped bag and pulled free her iron golf club, it's head covered in the remainder of blood and brain that a wiping down with a handkerchief couldn't remove.

Opening her eyes, she smiled widely as she gripped the end of the driver tighter in her hands. _Come on Nick, show me what you've got..._

* * *

Nick walked cautiously through the trees, his pistol held in both hands as he did a cop strafe through the forest in hot pursuit. Looking around with eagle eyes, he couldn't help but feel some rising ire at losing his pickings. Letting his arm drop, he exhaled dumpily.

"Fuck. Don't tell me they got away." Nick muttered irritably to himself. He kicked up a clump of mud in frustration, his wounds sustained from scuffles with those girls earlier and from with Octavia (Girl #16) and Vicky (Girl #22) were still hurting like mad, but he was determined to not give up. _No, they couldn't have possibly gotten far, Rain may be fast as fuck, but with another person weighing her down she should be somewhere around here._

And how right he was, because at that point that Nicole threw her full body's weight (Which admittedly wasn't much) into the Battle Royale fanatic. Nick fell down with a yelp, the Beretta flying from his hands into some nearby bushes as Nicole started beating Nick with her golf club like an enraged, drunken linksman.

"FUCK!" Nick yelled as he was pounded into the ground, holding up his hands in defense and getting pain as his only response as she shattered his wrist with an audible crack; He howled loudly in pain, much to Nicole's satisfaction. With every blow, another bopping seemed to be heard as Nicole injured something else in Nick's body, bruises and tears in his clothes appeared collectively. She continued to strike at every vulnerable part of Nick's squirming and hollering form until finally he made the gumption in pure agony to roll away desperately for his pistol.

Nicole cracked the putter over Nick's back causing him to scream some more before kicking out like a dog, connecting with the girl's shin and getting her to collapse in tremendous pain.

While Nicole was distracted with her smarting leg, Nick determinedly reached for the handgun and clenched it in his hand and armed himself with the pistol once more. Rolling onto his back, he hardly had time to see Nicole rise to her feet again before he fired a round that clipped her shoulder in a spray of blood and bone. Nicole howled with renewed rigor, dropping the club as Nick pulled the trigger again, nailing Nicole in the gut.

Nicole's body shuddered as what little strength she had left evaporated. She could see things haze over for a moment as she collapsed to the ground in a heap.

"Fucking shit!" Nick hissed as he rolled away from Nicole. He was having some difficulty standing up, but after tentative experimentation he eventually got rose to his feet with aches all over.

Multiple places on his torso, arms and legs began to bruise over and his clothes were tarnished with dirt and blood. Nick began to take in heavy breaths as he was caught up in the pain. _Jesus this hurts! Hurts like a fucking bitch, but it was worth it. Oh yeah was it worth the pain. You scored another kill finally! And wouldn't you know it was that pale girl. Wasn't she your chem partner in sophomore year? Ahh well; It doesn't matter. Things hurt now but the pain can be dealt with, you dealt with it earlier, you can deal with it now. Just take some painkillers and it'll go away. I just hope this bitch didn't break anything._

He wanted to check the bone-thin girl for a weapon, or anything else he could use, but she didn't appear to be armed. Fucking golf club wasn't any good in a firefight, leave that behind.

Looking to Nicole's visible hand though, he could see something that did look reasonably cool. Kneeling down beside the girl, Nick pulled the thin gold chain from Nicole's fingers. _Tiny gold cross, high quality though. Sign of a badass, lots of those gang members wear them, don't they?_

Smiling his cocky smile as he stood back up, Nick pulled the cross from Nicole's hand and let the chain dangle around his neck. _Awww yeah, that looks right. Cunt just beat your ass senseless, about time something good came of it all._

Clad with the green parka and shiny badge (though with a noticeable dent in it), the buckshot riddled Stetson (he retrieved it from Main Street an hour after his showdown with Vicky and Octavia), his Beretta dangling at the waist, and now with the gold chain; Nick Delaney now felt ready to take on the game, he felt like the man! A motherfucking badass!

Lifting up his pistol once more, Nick took his attention from the not-quite dead Nicole long enough for the fatally wounded girl to get her last shot in. With a final gasp and a smile from her bloodied lips, Nicole pulled an arrow that she'd stolen from Rain's case of crossbow bolts from the back of her belt and rammed it into the Achilles heel of Nick's right foot.

The Battle Royale geek let out a high-pitched scream as he wheeled around (now carrying a noticeable limp), and emptied the rest of the magazine into Nicole's body propped up against the tree. Several bullets punched holes in her chest while the rest found her head and obliterated her skull in a hammer-smash of expletives that surprised even him. With Nicole's ruined head streaming blood and brains through a messy curtain of blond hair, Nick angrily pulled the bloody arrow free and tossed it into some nearby bushes.

Nicole may have died in burning agony, but at least she could die happy knowing she had crippled one of the game's top contenders. But still, she had pissed him off.

"Fucking bitch. Gah!" he shrieked, the pain was still oh so unbearable. A severed Achilles heel wouldn't be an injury he could recuperate from in the game, he would be a cripple now! _Fuck you Nicole! Fuck you and the assholes who made you!_

Out of unadulterated rage and spite, Nick defiantly kicked Nicole's body in the gut and spat on her- now caked in blood- shirt.

He had emerged from the fight victorious, but crippled. With great difficulty, he managed to pull himself to his feet, but his right foot was practically useless now. It took a considerable amount of effort just to balance his weight on both feet.

He looked down at Nicole's body lividly. But after a while, the pain and anger began to subside. Limping over to her, he realized that his pack was blasted away by Vicky at noon; this girl may actually yield some use after all.

With some difficulty, he managed to stuff what little equipage and supplies he managed to store on his person into Nicole's bag, not like she'll be needing it where she's going.

Then with even more difficulty, he lugged up the duffel bag and made to turn around.

He decided to get out of the woods and find some shelter before doing anything else. After gazing down at Nicole's body on last time, Nick turned away and limped off back towards the east. A quasi-smirk on his face.

Just a few minutes earlier, his first priority had been to play to win. Now his first priority was treating his wounds and taking a nap, the police station really had been a boon for the boy after all.

This thrill was real, the pain, the excitement, it was all real. This was definitely it. That was what he liked about the Battle Royale, it was undeniably _real_.

Yeah, reality was good. Reality was good because it was the only thing that would get him out of here, out of this hellhole, out of his mundane life. Reality would take him and elevate his position to that of a king. Not just a king, the latest winner of the Annual United States Battle Royale. He would succeed Julia Friedland's position. It would be him walking down the red carpet, sporting enough scars to terrify even the most hardened of criminals. It would be him publishing memoirs and autobiographies, his face emblazoned all over Battle Royale endorsed merchandise and sponsor goods. It would be his voice coming out of the loudspeakers in the next year, announcing whenever one of the contestants was killed. It would be him congratulating the inevitable winner and give up his throne, all the while smiling with paternal pride...

_Win this, and all your troubles will be over. You could have anything you ever wanted. All you need to do is to win this death game. Forty-nine casualties..._

All those times he had watched teenagers slaughter each other in the comfort of his basement. The thrill he had felt when Calvin Fitzhugh, a.k.a. the former Boy #15 and the Season Seven contestant he had been rooting for, ultimately emerged victorious during the Florida Season.

Inching through the green clusters that thrived in the undergrowth, Nick thought about setting out in search for his next victim. His third victim. _Yeah, that sounds good, two kills under your name now. First that Melissa girl, still no idea who she is but if that's what the announcements say her name is, and now you got Nicole, so two kills, two kills in total, yeah, that's good, just over half a day and you've already killed two people, two girls admittedly, but still, two people. That's better than most people have, hell, that's probably better than everybody else in this competition _(_Toby doesn't count_.)_. Hell yeah, that kicks ass._

But he was tired and sore all over. He had set off right from the beginning, hunting down the weaker contestants (_girls_) and dodging from those who thought they could best him (_nobody so far, luckily_). The day was long and enduring, and he had gotten through that. He hadn't been able to catch a single wink though, and that would probably prove to be an obstacle. Hell, it was already inching at the edges of his consciousness, the exhaustion that would soon set in. Lack of sleep did not bother the boy, but lack of sleep on top of all the physical exertion and agonizing pain, not to mention the mental stress, hell, that was nearly crippling altogether.

He needed some rest. He needed some sleep, maybe, or at least a place he could rest for a while. Yeah, resting sounds good, way better than sleep at least. He could easily made it through three days without sleeping. He couldn't afford to lose eight hours of time now, and heaven forbid if some lucky bastard happened to come wandering by while he was out...

But he couldn't just find any location to take a breather. Especially not in the middle of the woods. Maybe one of the cabins nearby...

_No, not the cabins. People are bound to be heading there, which is good if you're in your full mind, but if you're gonna be snoozing then it's best to stay out of the way. Not the cabins, maybe a tool shed or something. Bound to be a couple of those nearby._

With his Beretta held high, the boy sought shelter. He had the map sufficiently memorized that he knew which direction to head towards if he wanted to find it. It would take him away from the cabins, away from where people were likely to be staying, but that was something he could easily remedy. He had the will and the firepower to.

Limping away with his left leg doing most of the work, Nick felt half-asleep already; the excruciating pain he was in being his only source of vigilance.


	26. Hour 17: 39 Contestants Remaining

There were more than a few people whom he didn't trust in this game, and most of them not without a sound and supportive reason. They were selfish. They were manipulative. They were ruthless. They were the exact kind of people multinational corporations would have valued, they were the kind of people he used to emulate. After all, in a dog-eat-dog world, those were the apex survivors that dominated the highest denomination of the pyramid, transcending all those beneath them. Was it an inherent lack of empathy that dictated their immoral (or amoral varying on how you looked at it) acts, or just due to cold, yet practical pragmatism that made people so cynical? Be it misanthropy or sociopathic tendencies, Michael Yunin (Boy #9) knew well enough that all the speculation in the world was inane. All that mattered was that those people were dangerous, that aside from the designated cannon fodder such as himself, none of them could be trusted.

But that didn't mean he couldn't give this Battle Royale something to think about; flatout resigning himself to a predetermined fate of expiration wasn't something Michael could swallow. The superiors behind the game had deemed his less than two percent chance negligible, but that didn't mean he had to. If there was one thing Michael knew, it was the power of the commons.

"United, we stand." he muttered to himself.

Nobody was saying that they had much of a chance; they in fact in all likelihood had a greater chance of winning if they all put their weapons together in a makeshift regiment and declared a war against all other remaining factions of competitors. But Michael was still determined to try his best. He had the skills, he knew he did. Being up to snuff to perform what was required wasn't the problem here. He might not have the equipment yet, but that shouldn't prove too difficult to affix. After all, what was a resort island without a functional Internet cafe? Or an airport?

The third factor though, was the one that easily troubled him the most, and as of now, the most challenging to remedy. He didn't have the people. If he wanted this to have the remotest possibility of being effectively pulled off, he would need people on his side for a multitude of reasons. People could provide skills; whatever that he didn't have or couldn't wasn't up to par to perform, he could have others do. People could provide support; in times when it looked as though everything was doomed to high hell, morale would be an invaluable commodity. And most of all, people equaled numbers. If the cameras monitoring the game discovered what they were up to, they couldn't go ahead and activate all their collars with little apprehension, not when they had the numbers on their side. That would be a serious impediment to ratings, and the powers that be certainly wouldn't want that, oh no. Of course not.

But the foil to that was that Michael was not a social person. Interactive skills and social aptitude were never his thing. Games were. Computers were. Hacking his way in and out of a supposedly secure government network was. But he didn't have the power to make people trust him or believe in him. He lacked charisma, good looks, and aplomb much of the time. He himself was admittedly gawky and unattractive, generally hung out with the schools seedier elements (usually that sect of teenagers held people he found to be more intriguing then the other cliques), and many seemed to describe him as neurotic, but no matter, he almost wished he had been more of a banal fuck like the rest, signed up for extra cirriculars. If he had known his entire life would come down to these ill-fated 72 hours, first off he would've transferred schools. But that aside, if there was no way for him to circumvent this fate, then Michael figured he probably would've tried out for the cheerleading squad, class president, and baseball team all in one fell swoop just to try and bolster his reputation around Cold Rivers. Would've made this whole recruitment process far more feasible.

That didn't necessarily mean that he was entirely anti-social. He wasn't the class loner (that title would've had to go to Octavia Manago, now going by Girl #16) by any means, he had some friends that were in this game, sure. He could start with contacting them. He could analyze the list and mark down those who were slated to be useless, and try his best to convince them in a text message of one-hundred-and-forty characters or less. The size of a tweet, that would work. Yeah, and monkeys will fly out my butt and do the polka.

Going through the contestant list in his mind (a near eidetic memory came in handy in times as such; he wouldn't have to risk letting his guard down to find the list), he immediately identified several people whom he thought could be trustworthy. _Logan comes to mind, fiery and politically-orientated, no way he'd give in to the governments rules. Rodney's also a good guy when it comes down to it, a few years ago Andre would've been decent, but now who knows if he's playing or not. Natalya is a decent girl, been fucked so many times that she probably couldn't close her legs, but still nice. Joel's a good choice, maybe (no maybes, this ain't the time for maybes). Vikram too._

All that would account to nothing if he couldn't influence them to put enough trust behind him and his cause. All the brainpower in the world would do little good if the people had no conviction in him. But if things worked out the way he intended them to, he wouldn't have to, would he? All he would have to do was find one of the popular kids, somebody who's inherently good and hadn't lost their morals. Or maybe one of the ethically gray ones who were still struggling to accept that the world wanted them to be evil. If he found somebody he could rely on to rally the masses, everything would come together just fine.

"The people, united," he whispered with a grim smile, "will never be defeated."

* * *

There are many different kinds of pride. Some say it isn't a sin in moderation, after all, being delighted over an accomplishment is certainly an appropriate reaction and even healthy towards ones' self-image and esteem. But of course, too much of anything is bad, that's where the blurred line between validation and vanity tends to be crossed.

Past honor and righteous reverence are the vain, those who value appearance over all else, especially their own. They primp and preen in front of mirrors day in and day out, worshipping themselves on the reflective alter almost as an homage to the fallen Narcissus. Then there are those who see themselves as God's gift to the opposite sex. They're the ones who are wanted and lusted after by all, and of those huddled masses, only they get to choose. Among an even more select few, there are those who truly believe themselves to be God. They beg for worship among all and have lists of conquests several miles long.

None of them even held a candle to the utter Narcissistic aristocrat donned in the chiffon-colored tuxedo who was mentally, and hygienically in a steady decline. This person, known as by Boy #8 by the Battle Royale, and Nathan Blue by everyone else (not that many of them would want to), was having a rather lousy time in the Ninth Annual United States Battle Royale. It wasn't just the consideration that he had been forced into a game of death (although that had certainly been a major aspect of it), but rather the fact that he had been cursed with rather poor luck.

He was a pretty boy to the greatest degree, never wanting to mess his hair or anything else up on his perfect face or body. He would spend hours out of the day in front of a mirror, primping and preening and pumping almost as much makeup and hair products into his face as any of the school's more image-conscious girls. If like-minded egocentrists emulated Narcissus's behavior, Nathan took it the extra mile and probably would've made the mythological Greek hunter pale in comparison in regards to juxtaposing their own self-fixation.

Truth be told, he was really as vain as it got. He may have been one of the bitchier students in the school, but it's not like anybody was really willing to contend with that. No one messed with him, ever. Not since the time in second grade he cut one of his best friend's hair off in the middle of class, faked up some tears and blamed it on another kid for his own amusement. The other kid got in trouble and was more or less shunned for the rest of their time through the Cold Rivers school system. Sure, they did eventually wind up locking themselves in a garage with the car running, but that's their own problem, right? Not like it was Nate's problem.

A detached part of his brain that clung onto the happenings of the past vaguely dug up a memory that a few of that kid's friends had set up an impromptu memorial near the football field's outer fencing for the dead bastard, plastering photos of the deceased's face as well as written messages of hope for the future and stating he will be missed, such platitudes. Nathan thought at least the bed of flowers staged at the base of the mawkish cenotaph were nice, that was a good gesture. Even though he did feel a modicum of empathy for the suicide victim whenever he happened to stroll by, the blueblood still couldn't help but shake his head in disgust. _Idiot._

Though that nameless, faceless kid that Nathan couldn't even remember the name to was completely irrelevant and long dead now, suicide...now that was a word for thought.

The thought had certainly crossed his mind, but no. He would never commit suicide, he was too good for a fate like that. Winding up shuffled amidst the statistics of teenagers who couldn't handle growing up (though only a fraction of them were ever faced with something as daunting and horrifying as something like the Battle Royale). Forfeiting all of his chance at life and this "game" in one awfully selfish and maudlin blunder, no way.

Nathan Blue may have been a lot of things, but a defeatist was not one of them.

Though one thing he irrefutably was, was handsome. Ever since elementary school he had been told time in and time out by his parents and girls that were mature enough to know aesthetic finesse when they saw it that he was a good-looking kid, and he was more than one to capitalize on the matter. He had the money to dress in the good clothes, get his hair done right, and even get a floor length mirror he could look himself up and down with. They say masturbation is the perfect act of self-indulgence. Nate knew better of course. How disgusting.

Though this Battle Royale seemed to really be threatening to change that. Oddly enough he had found all this more frustrating than anything else. Having been used to a life where everything had been easy, the Battle Royale came as something of a shock to the system. Nathan had always considered himself to be a lover, not a fighter. Strikingly handsome, the boy had always sought to keep himself as well groomed as humanly possible, often to the extent that he would wear more makeup than the girls he dated. His shoulder-length blonde hair was always slicked back and healthy through a cabinet full of products. Born to a rich family, he was always used to the best, and though he wasn't the brightest of students his general reputation and lavish wealth always seemed to get him by.

So it seemed natural to him that a feeling of betrayal was what should be felt upon entering the Battle Royale. He like most others had always viewed it as their patriotic duty to support the game and all other government programs, but this... this shouldn't have happened. Nathan was good, he was a supporter of the country. He had money. People with money didn't get fucked over by the government, hell, they were supposed to be the ones raised up by it!

And instead of being raised up by it, he was now down in the troughs with the rest of the animals that normally fed from it. _Ugh, so grotesque, bet this is all Mitsumi and Logan's fault, accursed hippies can't learn to just be quiet when things are good, ruin it for the rest of us._

He was with a group of people earlier in a barn (_how apropos for them_), he detested each and every one of them, but considering the free food and drinks, he figured it best to keep his prejudice to himself. Just read your Alexandre Dumas and stay silent, don't want to provoke the uncouth louts. It was a moot point now, considering that group was defunct now thanks to one Bonnie Navarro a.k.a. Girl #6. Bitch…

But at the moment, more than anything else, Nathan knew that he had to get going. He was currently residing in one of the abandoned barracks at the edge of the military base that encompassed a quarter of the island, basically a row of old rotted and rusty cots with dirt and leaves smeared all around the room. His weapon that he had been assigned was a stapler (staples included). Ugh. Couldn't they give him a halfway decent weapon, you know, one that could be used to actually kill people? Nate didn't even really want to go on a spree like the rest of his classmates were sure to do, that was just dirty and vulgar and... Ugh.

There was no way in hell he was going to let these people do him in. It couldn't happen, simple as that, it was not meant to happen. His family would not allow it and would be here to rescue him soon. Until then, he needed to bide his time wisely. A good weapon would've made this task easier, most certainly. But of course, as Nathan figured, life just perpetually sucked.

So, carrying his duffel bag, he exited the barracks and started wandering around in the forest cautiously. The sun was moving across the sky slowly, creating a pleasant and peaceful dappled pattern of the leaves on his skin as the light filtered through. He hated outside and he hated trees even more, but even he could admit that it was peaceful and pleasant. He had walked into a small clearing of sorts, hearing a babbling creek off somewhere in the distance. If only he had a picnic blanket, some pinot noir, and a perhaps a masseuse of sorts, this day would be perfect. No, not perfect, completely and utterly sublime.

The coast was clear, if he just kept low and didn't happen to stumble upon any snipers…

It was then that the figure started approaching from behind.

* * *

"_Have you seen the well-to-do, up and down Park Avenue; on that famous thoroughfare, with their noses in the air._" Victoria Sanchez a.k.a. Girl #22 sang in the highest of spirits,"_High hats and Arrowed collars, white spats and lots of dollars…_"

Octavia Manago a.k.a. Girl #16 brought two of her fingers up to her chin as an act of deliberation before responding, "Putting on the Ritz?"

"Bingo Tavi!" Vicky cheered to her friend, flashing a confident grin and bringing up her purple shades to reveal her cocky eyes. "Young Frankenstein, great fucking movie!"

"Quite. I do concur that it is a rather, well done, cinematic work." Octavia chimed in.

"You betch'ur ass it is! Wasn't that the Saturday midnight movie playing at the Rose Gould theater last week?" Vicky asked.

"I'm not quite sure, it's contingent upon how long we were held captive." Octavia seemed to put extra emphasis on the word 'captive', not that Vicky really noticed.

She of course was talking about how they were drugged and held in care in preparation for the game, which they both were officially avid participants of now. Their immediate agenda was reaching the cathedral where they were hoping Flora and several other blissfully stupid folks would be, maybe pick up a kill or two along the way. They would've both reached the place hours ago if it weren't for one thing…

… If not for the fact that the girls couldn't navigate to save their life. The map Vicky could handle, and by taking the more conspicuous landmarks as signposts, she could even make his way around the island with some precision. But that was where their luck ended; everything else suddenly became hopelessly, well, hopeless. With Victoria's sense of confidence, she had intended to reach the church within an hour or so. Instead, five hours later, they still hadn't found it. _How is this even possible? _Octavia herself tried to navigate the map, surprisingly proving to be even worse then Vicky, what? She was a concert cellist and future Juilliard graduate, not a map guide.

"Hey, Vinyl." Octavia began. Vicky's ears perked up at that pseudonym. Vinyl was the first half of Vicky's stagename when she would perform at nightclubs and other social events as a disc jockey (Vinyl Scratch being the full title). Only once on a Friday the 13th's blue moon would Octavia address her by this identity, it had to be something important.

"Yeah, Tavi?"

"I was just wondering-" Octavia seemed to struggle to come up with words, she fiddled with her fingers and looked upwards for an answer on how to elaborate.

"Go ahead, say it Tavi, what's on your mind." Vicky assured.

"Umm, it's just…how do I look?" Octavia asked with an nervous stammer.

Vicky never really took her friend for someone that stressed about how she looked, so of course Vicky found the question to be slightly odd coming from her modest (yet innately gorgeous) friend and roommate.

"Umm, well, you're sporting a nice shiner courtesy of being pistol-whipped. But asides from that, you're still very doable." Vicky said.

Octavia blushed slightly at the racy compliment, but thanked Vicky properly anyways. Why that sentence of inquiry was such a high priority Octavia would never know, likely just something to help break the tension between them. Moot point provided that both tension and silence came over them again like a bad omen.

Looking at the map again from her necklace pouch, Vicky scanned the projection looking for the church. Octavia could see the little hamster wheel in Vicky's head going a mile a minute, and try as she might not to, she cracked a smile.

"If I got this read right..."

"You got us lost like five minutes ago, idiot." Octavia said jokingly.

Vicky ignored her, "If I got this read right, about two blocks that way there's the church. Let's take a look there."

"Okay." Octavia said. With that said, Vicky rolled up her map and brought out the business end of her boomstick, bracing the stock against her reddened shoulder (_wound sure healed nicely._) and took off in a lopsided jog, Octavia pursuing close behind with her ever-present switchblade grasped tightly in her hand.

"First one there is an Andre Sullivan!" Vicky playfully called back. Octavia let a subtle smirk cross her lips as she suddenly spurred ahead of Vicky, racing far beyond that of what a musician who did no athletics was expected of.

"Hey, no fair!" Vicky shouted, "I've got the heavier weapon!" She didn't seem to care at all that an opportunistic sniper could've taken them out with the clamor they were making. At this moment in time, between the thick camaraderie of the two girls, the morbid ambiance of the Battle Royale seemed to lift for just this moment, the sunshine of friendship (_blegh!_) abating the filthy fog. Little did they know what they would find once they got to their destination.

* * *

The Hillsborough Community Church was a creepy looking place, there was no denying that. The stained glass windows were so poorly designed that the distorted visages of saints (_they are saints, right?_) looked to Octavia almost like monsters. Sure she had walked through those heavy wooden portal doors before, but with the sun beginning to trek to the side of dusk, it painted a far different picture then that of the one in the bask of the morning sun.

The doors were heavy and wooden, looking more like the portal to an ancient castle than a modern church with their heavy iron knockers. It looked like a bad place to the girl, but then again in the context of a Battle Royale, wouldn't anything? They stood before the doors, Victoria holding her shotgun and Octavia her machete in defensive positions.

"We go in fast, we go in hard, if anyone charges, you stab like mad, if anyone starts shooting, you book it back where you came from, I'll follow you, alright?" Vicky said quickly.

"Affirmative," Octavia replied. Standing outside the doors was scarier than she could have ever imagined, but the prospect of both kills and safety was too good. They had to do it, they just had-

Vicky swung the door open with lightning speed. Octavia ran in quickly first, followed in short time by her DJ friend. They were fast, they were efficient, and they were immediately underwhelmed by the lack of presence of people. Here they were, pumped up and psyched for a fight, but with no fight to be found. Octavia still wasn't going to drop her guard, cautiously stalking down the aisle to the pulpit the cellist looked around the interior until a near-strangled voice garbled out some contorted words.

Hearing the voice, Octavia was drawn like a moth to the flame while Vicky kept watch with her shotgun close behind. Eventually the conclusion they came to was to a large silver-like thing in the corner of the room by the organ, like a massively entangled beast in a spider's web or a cocoon. Either way, it was not a bug, it was actually the torpid form of Mathias Willard a.k.a. Boy #20 tethered to the wall like an internet prank gone awry.

The skater's eyes were closed as his mouth idly moved open and closed like a trout as some song lyrics came out in a scratchy voice.

_" I wonder if she's gone to stay, ain't no sunshine when she's gone, this house just ain't no home anytime she goes away. And I know I know I know I know…_"

Before Mathias could finish another 'I know', Vicky delivered a sharp hook with her right hand straight into his jaw, shocking him back to reality and letting out a dull moan in pain. His eyes shot open instantly and he realized two people were standing before him, two girls, and judging from their abrupt method of waking people up, he could already guess he was in for a world of hurt, and then death.

First and foremost was Vicky Sanchez, the girl who just struck him. Disc Jockey extraordinaire, loved music, sports, beer, cars, sex, pretty much all of the characteristics of a ladette. A hot English-Mexican chick with the personality of an affable frat boy. Crude, rude, often hygienically challenged and cheerfully ignorant and aggressive. She was one of the teens whose parties he regularly attended. Great sense of humor, kind of dim, but never somebody worthy to be contended with before now.

Octavia on the other hand was everything but like Vicky. She was a cellist, a refined prude with Chic jet-black hair that flowed down to her middle back unlike Vicky's unkempt electric blue-dyed mane. A fit, tall and spindly girl with pale but toned skin that stuck out in sharp contrast to her dark as the blackest of nights hair. Her eyes seeming a deeper brown than anything possible. They were a sight to behold, yet if the shadows caught her just right they'd look like empty sockets into her head. Beautiful by most standards, the emptiness and cold behind those eyes would take away any semblance of attractiveness. Prude, emotionless and downright scary now. For some reason even though Octavia's visage held nothing but cold analysis, Mathias was far more frightened of Octavia and her knife that glinted, than Vicky and her twin-barreled shotgun.

So long story short, Mathias was probably fucked, and not in a good way.

"Hey Mat my man," Vicky said as she cradled the shotgun in her hands, "how's it hangin?"

She smiled genuinely in a way that frightened Mathias, getting Octavia's lips to move into something of a faint smirk.

"Hurts," Mathias said weakly.

"Gonna hurt a lot more," Vicky said malevolently, "but you knew that already, didn't you?"

As Mathias looked on in grim confusion, Vicky delivered another sharp punch, this time to the gut. Mathias was held in place by the tape, but if he could he would've lurched forward as the pain took hold of his belly, the wind being thoroughly knocked out of him.

Though hurting like hell, Mathias did realize one silver lining. These girls were not trying to kill him now. If they had, Vicky would have simply shot him instead of hovering around. Which meant there must have been an ulterior motive...

"I'm sorry, did I break your concentration?" Vicky asked as Mathias sputtered wildly and coughed desperately in regaining his breath, "I asked you a question. You knew that already, didn't you?"

"Fuck you!" Mathias forced out. In response, Vicky simply and forcefully kneed his groin, he howled with his nether regions engulfed in flaming hot pain as his eyes clamped shut, forcing back tears as his sensitive male anatomy was injured. _Can't even bend over!_

"Heh, I thought you liked it that way, Mat?" Vicky taunted in response to his bark, "I bet you'd like a good screw right now, wouldn't cha?"

Mathias idly remembered it, Vicky was hot, hammered, and ready to go at Diane's place. He managed to lay it on thick with some charm derived from liquid courage of his own, before they really knew it… The backseat of Vicky's old Ford, some cheap pounding rap music, and the stench of something mixed in with that ancient leather back seat... They were both later thanking God that they still had the presence of mind at the time to use a condom.

"That ain't happenin' though. Ya get me?" Vicky asked.

Mathias weakly nodded, hoping that he wasn't sterilized and the bruising in his loins wasn't too gnarly.

"Good," the DJ said, "now we're getting somewhere. Now, who did this to you?"

"Why?" the skater asked confusedly, not at all getting the point of this interrogation.

"Wrong answer," Vicky said with a wry grin, swinging the shotgun like a golf club and connecting with Mathias's ribs. A crack could be heard, probably from the three ribs that she broke.

"Now," the blue-haired girl mentioned with a smile, "if I ask you a question, you answer the question. If you don't answer the question, I break you more. We on the same page?"

Wheezing and with little voice, the confined boy responded, "Yes." He really wanted to do something, fight back. But being completely tied up like this would make that not possible for the time being.

"Very good, we're making progress here," Vicky said smiling, "progress is good, ain't that right Tavi?" On Octavia's part, she merely nodded with no real emotion to speak of.

"Now, whoever did this to you does not want to play this game, otherwise they would've killed you outright. I personally would like to know who is not playing the game, since those people, much like yourself right now, make the easy kills. So, let me ask again, who did this to you?"

"Macintosh," Mathias muttered through the excruciating pain and with little voice, "Hank, big guy. Southern accent."

"So, Big Mac ain't playing huh?" Vicky repeated with a bemused expression on her face, "Hot as hell and real big. Awesome, good stuff. Anyways I'd honestly like to repay you for your information, but..."

He motioned for Octavia to come forward, which she did willingly.

"This is probably going to hurt," Vicky said as he slung the shotgun over his shoulder, "a lot. We got something we wanna try out, and you make a damned good guinea pig."

Octavia asked, "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

"I thought you might get a kick out of it," Vicky said jovially, "and because we still need a guinea pig. Neither of us know very well how capable our weapons are, I mean we know that blade of yours is pretty sharp and the shotgun's got, well… it's a shotgun, but this way we know how effective they are against a real human being. And besides, those people editing this game are gonna want us to be real sick sons of bitches when it comes to killing, and it's gotta be more fun this way than killing him outright."

Octavia directed a distrustful glance at her technically legal stepsister. She didn't think it was a good idea to leave him alive for one second longer than they had to. No, definitely no, if it was up to Octavia, she would have executed him, right here, right now. But Vicky had a point, her switchblade wasn't nearly as she sharp she imagined when she was dealing with Nick. Plus, she did like the idea of being a Battle Royale star...

Octavia did her usual nod as Vicky stepped aside, her shotgun aimed at Mathias as extra intimidation. Octavia went close enough to Mathias to kiss him if she so chose, but no. She instead emphatically flicked out her switchblade with a menacing noise that made Mathias's eyes widen with fear.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, you can't be serious, oh god, I'm sorry, man, Jesus! Oh please god no!" Mathias rapidly screeched.

Octavia descended upon the helpless boy with the knife, the slightest of smiles on her pretty face as the skater was terrified to the core and tried to thrash in his bindings, kicking and screaming madly to no avail. He pleaded more and more, trying to derail what was coming to him; all in vain.

When Octavia finally touched the blade onto his skin and did her handiwork, Mathias screamed. A lot.

* * *

Mitsumi Sato, a.k.a. Girl #5, would have been the first person to admit that she had no clue how the gun she had worked. If it had been a pistol, maybe even a rifle, the girl had the faintest inclination that she might have been able to get it to point in the right direction and even with a little luck get it to fire. But even the instruction booklet that came with the Heckler & Koch UMP45 Submachine Gun had helped her very little. She got it loaded, she maybe even found the safety, but getting it into a firing sort of mood just didn't seem to be in the cards. Then again, even she had to laugh at how ill-equipped she was in a game like the Battle Royale.

Being a young diplomat she was used to firing her mouth far more then she was firing guns, that and coming from Japan, a country whose citizen's policy on firearms are among the strictest on the planet, really didn't help the cause. Even though she was Americanized, she still was old-world Japanese in many respects, respect and honor for elders, a non-libertine lifestyle, hard working and _extremely _studious, among other attributes (including less than stellar driving skills, and no guns).

She had received texts from Jerry Tran (Boy #5) earlier speaking about how the barn was no longer a viable option as a rendezvous, then later got similar feedback from Rain Forscythe (Girl #15). Both led her to the conclusion that she couldn't do the barn, and that everyone was on the move. _God, why can't anything be straightforward? Now I need to contact everyone again and find a new place._

She was beginning to doubt herself, not only in her organization skills, but just as a leader now. She could rally the troops, but she knew that this foible would cause an overall loss of morale and hope. She needed things to come together quickly, or else the loss in hope may cause mutiny, that would plant the seeds of spite, and that would lead to some additional players. She couldn't afford that, nor let it bear on her conscience.

Plus there was even something else compounding the problem to this, and that was her own stress levels. Mitsumi wasn't one who could handle stress well whatsoever, maybe at school it usually wasn't a problem considering American academics was a cake walk for the mentally well-endowed girl, but for actual stressors that weren't solved by simply studying…that just wasn't so fit, was it?

Some people said she was neurotic, others said super stereotypically Asian. Super OCD was another thing. She needed order in her life, Lines must be straight, angles must be just the right degree, and the numbers must absolutely match. Simple. And this Battle Royale, ugh, this was really bad. Hell, people could attest to stress literally driving her insane. If things didn't fall together soon, she'd really need to find a way to relieve anxiety without her meds (which was unfortunately lost on the bus), if not…things were going to get ugly.

Possibility of mental breakdown aside, she omitted the barn and was now sitting quietly on a park bench just outside of Hillsborough's town hall, a small yet prominent ivory building that was the crest of the former resort island's citizenry. A wireframe trashcan to her left, and a green lamppost to her right, she couldn't but get the feeling like she was in Central Park or something. _Okay, this isn't over Twi, just, keep it together, KEEP IT, TOGETHER!_

She backtracked to a time back in Cold Rivers where one _particular _assignment got her so stressed out that she began giving herself a pep talk through a shallow water puddle's reflection down in Langley Park. She could recall growing more worried and rapidly becoming unhinged, starting to tearfully talk to her own reflection in a puddle, adopting two separate tones, one terrified that she would not make the deadline, the other insisting that it was still possible to solve the problem in time.

"You can do it!" Mitsumi cheerfully declared to…herself.

"Oh, but what if I can't?" she timidly retorted aloud.

"Yes you can!" she assured "You just have to keep it together. KEEP. IT. TOGETHER!" Mitsumi had a tendency to punctuate for emphasis when under massive duress, such as now.

That distressful essay for English wasn't at all dissimilar to her current situation, if not worse. Her normally neatly cropped straight hair was gradually loosening and frazzling, steadily losing it's chic. A light sheen of sweat moistened on her forehead, and already she could hear voices and paranoid fantasies that edged on the very brink of her consciousness, the world began to feel just the slightest bit groggier.

"Come on Twi! Don't lose it, you're the class president, valedictorian who's bound for Harvard to change the system from within, you can't be crazy and do all of that, can you?" She ranted to herself with a hint of uncertainty.

"Yeah, go to your happy place…happy place with Spike…Ms. Celeste, Flora, Rain, Diane, April…Violet. Shinji." She was vaguely aware two people on that list were dead, the last two, Cause of death? Battle Royale, sort of. Violet was eviscerated thirteen hours earlier that day, and Shinji was Mitsumi's aloof brother. Images of her older sibling sitting at the breakfast table and not recognizing anyone around flashed through her mind. Every so often he would giggle, then scream and claw at the air in front of him. No wonder he committed suicide. Battle Royale... Trash.

Still, there was a part of Mitsumi that still felt the need to keep the family name alive. Her brother won before, and if her survival made any difference, then so be it. It was of course a boldfaced rationalization that she had forced upon herself, covering up for the fact that she was afraid.

"No, you can't be afraid." Mitsumi repeated to herself. It was at this point that she became aware of the fact she was talking to herself. _Talking to yourself, huh Sato? That's one of the first signs of insanity, ain't it?_

Mitsumi had to shake her head to bring her back into the picture. Keep the icy cold demeanor, that'll keep the friends following you. That'll keep everything together...

She had tied and retied the laces of her trainers until they were sufficiently tight. She had made damn sure of her current location and the nearest seven escape routes – one of which involved entering the town hall and going out through the back exit. Now she would have to put that to use as it seemed, because she saw a wiry boy with pale skin and mangy, long-curly hair that draped off him like cat fur. He was dressed in a bland plaid shirt, with his lower half consisting of menial, tattered denim jeans. He was so boring looking, Mitsumi couldn't help but wonder if he was a serial killer. In his hands, he held something that glinted silver. Mitsumi had little trouble placing him; she recognized him as the president of the robotics club at school. His name eluded her, though she was fairly certain it was Mitch Something, a.k.a. Boy Number Something. In the end it mattered little, because this wasn't election. There was no point in negotiating anything. It was fight or flight.

Raising her submachine gun in a (rather unprofessional) gesture of aggression, Mitsumi screamed, "Get the fuck away!"

She turned, her entire body honed and ready to sprint. She wasn't a runner and came nowhere near the dexterity of Rain Forscythe, but she believed she could outrun the other boy once she was poised up and in a honed position to make a mad dash. Even if he caught up, she'd bat him away with the clunkiness of the gun. If that too failed, she'd fire some warning shots. _No way I'm dying today._

Her confidence might have proven correct, but the boy had other ideas. He shouted back in a loud, booming voice that would've alerted any predators that hadn't already heard Mitsumi's cry, "HEY, YOU THERE! I NEED YOUR HELP!"

Upon a cursory inspection of the boy, he could tell he wasn't sporting any sort of external injury. That notice really didn't assuage Mitsumi's discomfort at all, provided since he wasn't hurt, why would he need her help? _It could be a trap, you know. _

The insistent voice in the back of her head kept telling her it would be best to take the furtive path and run away, if he were to pursue, dissuade him. If he persisted...

"Oh, hell," she muttered to her conscience as she began to run towards the boy.

She still approached him cautiously, with the chunk of metal aimed forward in a defensive stance, ready to take the warning shots as necessary. Mitch Something looked wholly uninjured, which would've been cause for alarm but he was now beckoning her over with great enthusiasm. She troubled over this for all of two seconds, then decided she would hear him out. If he meant harm, she would either hit him, or run away, or both. It was that simple. The weapon in his hands was a heft of automatic firepower of his own, some Uzi-looking contraption, the kind gangsters would hold sideways and shoot horrifically inaccurate shots like in Boondock Saints. That meant he could easily shoot her down, but, she had a fire-spewer of her own to contend with his. Though, if he did call for her and he had a gun, why wouldn't he just kill her outright? Hmm…

Mitsumi stood steadfast, comfortably out of his reach and fully prepared to turn tail and sprint should Mitch Something prove hostile. "Drop that gun you got there before you come any closer, or so help me god I will turn you to Swiss cheese!"

"I wouldn't advise that, Sato." Mitch Something cheekily replied, "But if you do very well insist and if it'll give me your cooperation, I will comply." The boy said calmly. And just like he promised, Mitch Something slowly lowered the gun to the cement, he then purposefully put both his arms in the air and flipped them around twice to show that he hadn't concealed anything in the palms or the back of his hands. But it would still be too impulsive to trust him. He could very well have another weapon hidden elsewhere on his person.

Her eyes widened as she noticed that he had his left hand in the side pocket of his pack. That was suspicious behavior. Not good.

Mitch Something took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Mitsumi acted before an intelligible syllable could come out of his throat. Swinging the gun in an arc, she brought it down inches in front of his face, stilling it directly in front of his chest. Narrowing her eyes, Mitsumi snarled, "Don't bother trying anything, sucker."

"No, this isn't-"

"Shut the fuck up," Mitsumi said angrily. She slammed the metal block diagonally down. The muzzle struck his wrist, and his hand whipped out along with a small, grey, rectangular object. It clattered twice on the ground, then rolled to a stop like a peculiarly shaped Tetris block. A cell phone, not one of those fancy, feature-heavy technicality wonders, but the standard kind that could've been considered revolutionary three years ago. It wasn't what she expected; to be truthful she thought she might have rapped away a pistol or a dagger before she examined it more closely.

"Don't say a word," the boy hissed urgently, then knelt and snatched up his phone. His lips stretched broadly across his face, his tongue peaking out of his mouth in a tensely pensive countenance as he clicked furiously on the keypad.

Mitsumi couldn't understand what was going on, until Mitch Something pushed the cell phone up to her face for her to read. The screen was cracked down the middle, fortunately not enough to render the LCD display inoperative. Squinting her eyes, she peered at the message on the cell phone. The recipient field was blank, and a cursor was still blinking at the end. Mitch Something had quite obviously just typed it out. The message itself was succinct and to the point.

'if you help me i can get our collars off, nod if u agree'

Mitsumi swallowed. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I'm suggesting we team up and fight, I have the smarts and you have the connections, we'll be a power duo," Mitch said deliberately as his fingers became a blur on the cell phone's keypad. The previous message was now erased, leaving only one word: 'microphones.'

She goggled at him, her expression one of puzzled stupidity. She nodded hesitantly. "I'm not too sure... explain."

Mitch Something flashed a nervous smile. "Between the two of us, we have enough weaponry to take on the others. Not all at once, obviously, but we can get them here one by one. We tell them we have a plan to get out of here, I've seen the previous seasons and whenever people do this, there are bound to be suckers who fall for it."

The cell phone read: 'i have a plan, but i need your connections. we need enough people to make this work'

"I... I need to think about it," Mitsumi answered.

She took the phone from Mitch Something, typing slower than him by a clear mile but still managing to work out her message. 'why?'

"I'll explain about the rest later," Mitch Something said as he licked his lips, "when we're somewhere safer."

On the phone he typed, 'i'm fairly sure i can hack into their system, disable collars and escape!'

Backspaced, then typed some more, 'but we need people!'

"Okay," Mitsumi said aloud, deliberating over every word before articulating it, "that's what ive been trying to do!"

Mitch nodded in understanding.

"But how do we get people to come?" Mitsumi asked with feigned puzzlement. _Put on a show for the cameras, nothing suspicious here, go zoom on a naked girl being butchered to death with an axe please.  
_

Mitch caught on to what she was doing and responded accordingly. With a cheeky grin Mitch Something replied, "Build a baseball diamond, and they will come."

Mitsumi, not quite getting the quip, only raised an eyebrow in befuddlement.

"What? Are you really being serious right now? This isn't Field of Dreams, it's not like we're Costner and Madigan trying to salvage a farm, we're fighting for our lives here!" Mitsumi implored with a tenacity in her voice that came off perhaps more intimidating than she intended.

Michael's visage changed to a more stern and expected mien provided what he and the former Class President were negotiating here. "Forgive me, sheesh. Only trying to lighten the mood." Michael defended himself with, before adding:

"But in all seriousness...Text messages is what we'll use to reach the masses. We'll text them and ask them to come, then we do our thing. You're the class prez and one of the founders of the student union, people trust you."

"Are you... are you sure this will work? Because I don't want in if you don't trust it's going to work. I don't watch the show a lot but I know that these... alliances, never work well. They always end up..." She searched for the right word to convey what she was trying to connote, and found one that was near enough, "...stifled."

"Trust me," Mitch Something said simply, then continued on, "we get as far as we can on this plan, and then we're through and we'll do whatever. That sound good?"

What he typed was: 'not 100%, but very good chance. i'm good. we can do this.'

And he said it again, "Trust me."

"I need to think," was all Mitsumi said next as she slinked over to the wooden bench. She sat down exhaustedly, the machine gun and all of her compatriots forgotten. Mitch Something retrieved his fallen Mac-10 and came to her side, holding up his phone. He had typed out something else, but Mitsumi batted it away with one hand. She didn't want to read it, she needed to think over this. This was no simple decision, this was asking her to place all her remaining trust and hope in somebody who was for all intents and purposes, a stranger. This was insane. There was no chance this could work. But she admitted as well equipped as she desired to be, her chances weren't great. Mitch had a tentative plan, whether it would prove functional or not was irrelevant. It would give her a better chance at... surviving, at the very least.

Besides, if things got downright south, she could always defect. Knock him out, maybe shoot him. Convince the others (_if there are any others_, she amended), that it was for good reason and find some other tech expert, a less seedy one, like Vikram.

"Well?" Mitch hissed.

Mitsumi buried her face in her hands. Her black hair hung in drifts. She needed time... she needed to think.

"Not now," she finally looked up tiredly and said. "I'll think about it and I'll stay by your side in the mean time, but I can't decide right now. Give me some time. Give me an hour, okay? Or maybe, not even that. After the next report, after we hear if anybody else's been killed. Then I'll let you know if I'm on your side or not."

"Okay, I can accept that," Mitch said grimly.

"I really appreciate that, Mitch," Mitsumi said with equal enthusiasm as she felt her thoughts drift away again_, no gotta stay focused. Stay focused, stay in line!_

"Its Michael," the boy corrected, "Michael Yunin. Shall we go somewhere safer?"

And so Girl #5 and Boy #9 moseyed into the town hall; Mitsumi's mind going on all cylinders. It had come down to this, and it would not be an easy path to take. But... considering everything, it was probably the best thing to do. _Not probably, it _is_ the best thing to do under present circumstances. It's the _only_ thing you can do._

With both hands cradling her UMP45 so tightly that it left imprints on her hand, she turned to Michael with an indecipherable determination in her eyes, Mitsumi made a decision.

* * *

Nathan didn't have time to react as he sensed somebody approaching him, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. He would've turned around, but not before gasping in immense pain as something swift and sharp quickly descended his spine in a downwards arc. Unknowingly Nathan had saved his own life by taking a few steps forward idly due to rumination on what to do next, the blade of the machete that was intended to cleave his skull down to the base instead drew blood on his back as a sizable gash was now present through the threads of his white jacket-vest.

Howling in agony as he whirled around on his feet, only to be greeted by the sight of Bonnie Navarro, a.k.a. Girl #6, wielding a long black blade capable of amputating limbs of trees and men alike. The thing that unnerved Nathan the most wasn't just the blade she brandished, but more the pensive yet also aggressive countenance the volleyballer bore. Nathan liked to think there was an iota of pity within the Spanish girls' eyes, but he was far more concerned with getting the hell out of dodge versus what was going through Bonnie's mind right now as she made to charge him again.

Dropping his pack to decrease the load he had to carry (and therefore hopefully increase his chances of escape), and doing his best to stifle the urge to stand still and nurse the searing pain in his back, took off in a sprint that his inexperienced legs couldn't quite supply in lieu with Nathan's demand.

Not letting up, Bonnie tightened her grip on the machete's handle and chased after the wounded pretty boy. The girl ended up chasing the class aristocrat and Adonis all around the babbling creek. He was desperate to get away from her, but she had her sights firmly set on catching up. In the end, all it really came down to was which one of them was more committed to their goal.

With Nathan's legs pumping nothing but fire from running for his life (as well as the slash on his back that pumped blood and made his pure white attire morph into a macabre shade of coral pink in some spots), the pain in his spine and calves eventually became too much and he had to slow down, just as Bonnie had decided to unholster her flare gun and put an end to this.

The rush of blood to Nathan's head and the sudden urge to vomit string cheese almost prevented him from hearing the clicking sound. Almost. He certainly felt something red hot entering the back of his pants with more than enough lucidity than Nathan ever would've wanted.

The sensation that erupted within Nathan's jeans was that of fire, indeed, it was exactly that. He fell to the ground in blinding pain, only to look down as sparks were shooting out from his pants with a ravenous alacrity, causing him to scream further with tears coming from his eyes.

Seconds later, the flare exploded in a blast of white phosphorous and magnesium, creating a heat that was capable of burning through tile, in his underpants. Gone was much of the flesh in his inner thighs, as well as the entirety of his genitals. The explosion shook its way through Nathan's body and caused him to shudder, screaming wildly as his skin and pants were thoroughly on fire.

Bonnie stood idly by, not quite sure what to feel. Watching one of the class assholes trying to quell his literal firecrotch (_Hehe_) on a superficial level was pretty funny, but Bonnie did feel a bit of compassion at the fact she was brutally murdering somebody. She quickly snuffed whatever remorse she was generating as she stalked forward.

In excruciating pain and already succumbing some to shock, Nathan kept hitting his legs and stomach, trying to put out the fire and not pay attention to the fact that everything between his legs was missing. He was on fire though and that hurt even more than the loss of his much of his lower extremities, and he focused solely on putting it out; putting out the pain. Put out the fire, put out the pain, that was what he repeated. At that, he ran off looking to get away from this crazy bitch.

There was another explosion of bright white light off to his left, exploding against a tree as Bonnie fired off another shot from the flare gun and missed. He could see a glimpse of her frustratedly reloading the plastic pistol.

He could hear it. Water, running water. Water from a stream. God, thank you. He could see it, a stream about twenty feet wide and no more than a foot deep, but that was all he needed. He ran and jumped into the stream, putting out the flames with shocking cold and once more jolting his body back into reality. It felt as if all the flesh that had been burned was now being torn away in strips and was being pushed through a meat grinder. He could smile briefly though, the fire was out, the burning was gone. Now though... He lost his penis. God it hurt.

Rolling onto his back, now thoroughly in shock, Nathan sputtered some water out of his mouth and got up onto his knees in the river, for once not caring how he looked or what shape his designer clothes were in.

Bonnie was by now sprinting his way, holding her machete high like some strange and horrible athlete killer. He held up his hand as she came closer.

"Wait! Wait!" Nathan shrieked quickly, to no avail. Bonnie struck with the blade, splitting his hand in half and cutting off all the fingers on it. As he screamed, she brought down the machete again, severing his arm at the elbow in a clean fashion. He fell down in the stream, trying to crawl away with his one arm and legs pushing against the silt in the bottom of the river. She struck him in the back, spraying blood out all over her as she held the cane knife and waded in the stream.

Enough flesh was torn off to reveal some of his spine, bloody vertebrae pulsating along to the rhythm of the flowing water with nasty human juices pumping out of the bone, his back muscle and vertebrae clenched with each movement, making Nathan's death throes into some of the worst pain imaginable. It was almost painful enough to put the thought of having his dick burned off out of his panicked and agony-induced mind.

Still, Nate moved. His spine was horrifically damaged and was choking on a mixture of blood and water from the stream, but he was alive. But at the rate he was chugging, he wouldn't be for much longer.

The miserable mound of flesh known as Nathan Blue had used the last of his strength to roll over onto his back, looking up with sad eyes that had gotten him out of many a speeding ticket with female officers. Nate looked up pleadingly, trying to form words with his mouth but failing dismally, instead coughing up blood as it trickled down his mouth.

Bonnie continued to savagely strike with her machete, taking off more and more chunks of his limbs, skin, anything that wasn't protected. Gore and bloody water wildly splashed about, spraying Bonnie as Nathan continued to be cut to bits. After about thirty seconds of this, Nathan was miraculously still alive but in agony no man should ever know.

With a quick move, it was finally, mercifully, all over for Nathan Blue. Bonnie swung once more with her machete, striking Nathan firmly in the head. He stopped moving all at once and she kicked him away, pulling the machete blade from his skull in the process. Thoroughly freaked, she ran off.

Battered, butchered, broken and burned, Nathan spasmed uncontrollably in the river with a large chop to the head from Bonnie's machete blade. The stream gently sweeping by his mutilated soon-to-be corpse, almost like a caress. Being the stubborn survivor that he was, he was still alive, though with brain activity popping back and forth. Remembering girls he'd 'courted', baseball games, commercials from when he was a kid, picking out suits from the local tailor, friends, 9/11, Catcher in the Rye, Prom, Violet Belle, bitch, mom and dad I'm sorry, blood, pain._ Fuck, what's a guy gotta do to get killed around here?_

So went the lonely and brutal death of Nathan Blue, a.k.a. Boy #8.

* * *

There was a reason that Mitsumi's distress call never got to this girl's phone, it was because her other half had effectively destroyed her cell phone.

That was about four hours ago, Diane Pye a.k.a. Girl #13 would've loved more then anything else to have met up with her friend, but unfortunately for Diane, her split-personality 'Alexis' wasn't having any of that.

Diane had sought shelter in a local medical dispensary on the islands southeast portion; it had been eight long, excruciating hours in the making before she settled on this place. It wasn't too hard of a decision either, it was a makeshift infirmary, there were bound to be medicine, preferably some pills for her schizophrenia. She did need to calm down. Get Alexis under control before things get really ugly. Mellow out maybe, get a chance at finally thinking things through better than before. Things would definitely look a little bit better after some decently abused prescription drugs, a mild sedative perhaps, some antidepressants even? She could dream.

She had ransacked the place, savagely tearing open drawers, cabinets, tossing aside various bottles of analgesics and rolls of sterile bandages. She had done the procedure to every nook and cranny of the facility with little method or compunction to the point where it almost looked like a tornado had blown through the place.

"GOD DAMN IT!" Diane hysterically shrieked as she slammed a cabinet in a doctor's office shut, one MD Edward Goldwater was enscripted on the Plexiglas door, but that hardly mattered a fucking iota.

She was seriously screwed, if she couldn't get her hands on some Abilify or Clorazil really fast…she shuddered at the prospect of things to come.

"No, please, Jesus Christ no!" Diane pleaded with increasing desperation as she rummaged through another cupboard and rapidly scanned every bottle she could find with cursory analysis, most of the bottles proved to be absolute gibberish for her. She inordinately went over a list of different medicines in her mind. _Vicodin, Minocycline, Benadryl, Colchicine, fucking green tea pills!?_

Slamming the cupboard shut, she clamped her hands around her temples and began to whimper hysterically. "God. I beg of you! Please make this go away! I'll do anything, please!" she pleaded with tears forming around the edges of her eyes, they were beginning to have the appearance of being bloodshot. Insanity defined her new look, crazed eyes, disheveled hair, grinding teeth. The works.

It was an epic meltdown, to say the least. Her split personality was something she could usually manage, but in light of these new undesired circumstances, it was getting more and more impossible. It took all of Diane's remaining conviction and rigor to keep her at bay for this long in the first place. It certainly took a toll on her entire mentality, at the slightest noise she would jump and recoil in fear (one particular moment she unsheathed her katana without thinking and nearly cleaved off half of a dentists chair, demonstrated sure as hell it was an authentic katana instead of that Chinese 420A stainless steel horseshit, or even worse..._Zinc-Aluminum!_).

In the past hours Diane had gone from bawling her eyes out, to screaming madly, to a troubled fetal position, to wanting to commit suicide with her ninja sword, to an assortment of other mad actions. Her mental deterioration only atrophied as time passed, her hair would whip from side to side as she dashed around her rooms of madness in urgent search of relief.

_Come on Diane, what's wrong? I'm like the better of you're two halves anyways. SO what if I take over, it'll do you worlds of good._

"SHUT UP!" Diane screamed. _God I'm so fucking stupid! Stupid, stupid Diane! Why'd I leave my pills home? Why the fuck was I so reckless, why- Hey, I'm glad you did what you did, I was sick of being the passenger in you're road car of bullshit parties and diabetic sweetness. Hey, I like those things! Do you Diane, do you! Yeah, of course I do! It's my pass- Don't give me that shit!_

Her voice was beginning to weaken from screaming at herself so long, her throat burned, her mind was overworking itself into frying, this was veritable torture for the Genki Girl turned basket-case. She had to be careful around weapons or anything dangerous, Alexis grew stronger with each moment and her thirst for blood couldn't be quenched.

Diane's bipolar disorder was so severe it could arguably turn into dissociative identity disorder if she got pushed off the edge, she was already nearly completely out of her mind…it was killing her.

_You know you only constantly throw parties, not because you like them. It's because she knows everyone else likes them, and it's the only way your pitiful ass knows to be sociable on a normal level, stupid cunt. _

"That's not true!" Diane retorted, "Parties are fun! They make me happy and keep _you _away!" she spat.

_BULLSHIT. We all know, yourself included, that the only reason anyone gives a flying fuck about you is because of your, our, gigantic knockers and the fact people can cop free booze and sweets off of us. If you were to stop fucking around with this saccharine pseudo-celebratory horseshit, no one would even give a fly's shit __about you! _Alexis angrily moseyed to her mental counterpart.

Diane tried to force out a response, get rid of the thoughts, anything. Her madness was making her claw at her head just to distract herself from this hell. This was her version of torture, being not only physically alone, but with the only worse possible alternative, alone with _her_. As she wailed out some Otis Redding lyrics in a state of dementias, Diane stumbled back into an open shelve of pill bottles, causing her to yelp as the bottles rained down on her as if trying to strike her down.

_Lalalala I'm not listening, I'm in my happy place, I'm in my happy pl- That bullshit doesn't work in real life, if I don't take over your bitch ass will die and end both of us, you'll be like that Violet cunt over aro- No! That's no excuse, I'd rather die a thousand deaths then live a life with you! Oh, you're saying that now, but would you rea- Yes! Yes I would!_

Diane continued to rock back, tumbling to the floor in a fetal position again, crying to herself and trying to make it all go away. _No Violet, don't die! Irene, Beatrice, Mr. and Mrs. Pye, Palmer, Perry…Please. Please, Alexis, go away, go away and don't ever come back!_

The bottles scattered all over the floors were all useless, their text all esoteric gibberish. She writhed around in them like a tube encrusted snow angel.

_Think of a song or something Diane. The 70's were great. Everyone's gotta' love the 70's. Three Dog Night. Pink Floyd. Talking Heads. 'I can't seem to face up to the facts. I'm so nervous and I can't relax. I can't sleep cause' my bed's on fire. Don't touch me I'm a real live wire. Psycho killer…Not helping Alexis! No shit Sherlock!_

"Gah!" she cried out in fright. A sudden increase in cranial pressure caused her to gasp sharply in pain, her thoughts bouncing back and forth like a demented ping pong ball.

"God, how much longer will I suffer?" Diane asked delusionally to a deity she couldn't believe in. How could she? She couldn't believe in a higher power where such evil shit like the Battle Royale, or Alexis, could exist. Grasping her temples did nothing to sooth, it was a futile effort, as always. _Fuck why did I leave my pills! I shouldn't have been so retarded! Needed to be prepared, like Twi always says. Now I'm really paying for it…_

_Don't feel so down, throw a party. That's your go to solution for everything, why is this circumstance so special? Well, for one thing, I'm going to die here! Hmmph, well, you never liked those tripe faux celebrations anyhow. What? Yeah I- you and I both know that's horse shit! No, that isn't- Fuck..._

Fuck, well. It was true, it really was. As much as Diane tried to deny it, it was irrefutable. She didn't throw parties because she always liked them; it's because she knows everyone _else_ likes them, and it's the only way she knew to be sociable on a "normal" level. The hyperactive randomness (perhaps stemming from the untreated ADHD) that she's known for is often too much for most kids, who've actively avoided her for it in the past. But if she throws a party, suddenly everyone likes her, and she clung to that. So it's parties forever, and nothing else. Because if she stops, she stops being "That hyper girl with the nice tits who throws awesome parties all the time" and reverts to "That annoying bitch who talks too quickly about things that don't make sense." And then she's all alone. Again.

She sat back up from the linoleum, deciding to have enough dignity to wallow in her own misery on her butt rather then completely on the ground. She could feel the headache that usually indicated that her blood pressure was up far too high and that she would have an attack of rage and froze still. Diane placed one hand on her temple, closed her eyes and breathed steadily. She just sat and breathed, calming down and making her heart slow. Rational thought approached Diane's mind and she thought the situation out.

Normally her conscience and the approval of her friends kept the other side in check. Normally. Every so often however, she could feel a dreadfully familiar side, an evil side, come through. Alexis, a middle name, she would speak up and ask Diane why she did such insipid things, and Diane could answer it, just not to the other side's liking. As a great philosopher once said, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

Just as the voice began to creep it's way back in, a sudden din broke her out of it (much to her horror yet relief). Snapping her head to the direction of the noise, her troubled brain was suddenly flooded with several things, mostly commands from Alexis, and scenarios drawing out of that noise being the cause of her death like a grim fairytale about lethal siren-esque noises.

Spurred (more like coerced) by her mental counterpart and will to live, Diane decided to go investigate, by no way was she going to play (_Yes you are!_), so she decided to stick with the non-lethal, but still formidable in a way, tranquilizer dart gun instead of her katana. She silently crept out of the doctor's office and with as much stealth as she could muster, she rounded around the corner of the dimly lit hallway; with the sun etching along the purview of twilight, the atmosphere inside the facility seemed almost like something out of Silent Hill, Diane idly noted to herself.

"Diane?" a curious voice suddenly said behind her.

Letting out a surprised yelp, Diane whirled around on her feet and instantly tugged the trigger without even thinking. A muted 'pfft' sound permeated the dispensaries' quiet mien as a barbed dart sailed through the air and caught Diane's unintended target directly in the neck. The person let something silver in its hands clank harmlessly to the floor, a few moments afterwards the chemicals sufficiently did it's job and the person in question followed suit to the ground like a ton of bricks.

For a long while Diane was too frightened to move, when she finally did gain the fortitude to act, she first reacted by nudging the fallen person's foot, it didn't elicit any signs of consciousness.

"Holy shit." Diane murmured.

"Oh shit," Diane said with her heart pounding, "are you all right?"

Later on she would wonder why she had behaved the way she did towards the downed figure, but at the time it seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. The person had simply surprised her, and she had fired. She had no idea if the darts were poisonous or not, she needed to be sure. Kneeling down by the person, she put two fingers up to its neck, readjusting for the optimal spot to check for a pulse. When she eventually found the steady beat of life she felt a thousand pounds lighter with the exhale of tension.

"Phew! Thank god." Diane dumbly said aloud. It wasn't one of her friends, that could be good considering how pissed they'd be if they woke up from this…probably would never want to speak or see her again. Then she'd continue to be all alone. As always. Being alone for too long always did tend to do horrible things to her mental state…Oh…

Looking over the still form of the person she just incapacitated, her eyes instantly shot to the chrome object that was dropped, it was a pistol. Diane could feel her heart leap upon the discovery. She tentatively scooped up the ungainly weapon as her eyes began to dilate, her innocently curious look transforming into an utterly insane one, almost like the sugar rush of a lifetime (and for Diane, that was one hell of an accomplishment).

Looking over the handgun, it was large, expensive-looking, and probably packed a wallop of biblical proportions; almost like a miniature party-cannon. Diane was so distracted upon the new discovery and the mind-blankness at the act of downing a classmate, Alexis covertly took control while Diane was stuck in confusion. _Hehe, thank you for making this easy._

On Diane's part, she only had cognition for a few moments before her world went blank, she was now at Alexis's mercy. In her final moments she was vaguely aware that she would be gone, perhaps permanently, but at this point she didn't care, she no longer had the strength to ward her evil side off. _I'm sorry everyone, I'm sorry for whatever happens next. Whatever goes wrong, I hope you don't think less of me_.

With Alexis in control after so long, it almost felt insulting that now she could finally get things done. _Wow Diane, seriously, only took knocking someone out to put you over the edge? Talk about petty! _

This event was earth-shattering enough for the former party-animal, that her psychotic and ironically animalistic half easily had the gumption to take over, a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder, if you will. Gripping the pistol with extra ferocity as an evil smile crossed her gorgeous face; her tear-ridden eyes contorted into a gaze of dilated malice. It was finally time.

"Man, it feels good to be out." Alexis commented, now in complete control of her hosts body. She only got to come out whenever something incredibly sad happened to the actual Diane, which seemed to be far too fucking seldom, not nearly as often as Alexis would like, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

Looking down with a wicked smile at the unconscious person, she pointed the gun down at her still little head, waiting to give the girls noggin the Mike Gallagher treatment. _Hehe, time to die you stupid little bitch! No! Please don't, you've done enough, you need t- No! Fuck you! I've just come out to play, it's been to- I don't care! You better- No, go to hell!_

Trying to stop the sensations that she had become rather accustomed to, Alexis closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had to let her blood pressure drop to a certain point, and eventually the pressure on her brain that caused the sounds would stop. Until then, she dropped the pistol to the ground, balled up her fist, and slammed it into the corridor's menial plaster wall. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but it was a pleasant enough distraction.

And there, they stopped. That was easy enough now, wasn't it?

Looking back down to the girl with the same expression as before, something didn't feel complete. Oh yeah, this bitch needed to wake up. She was still knocked out cold so slicing her open wouldn't be that much of a pleasure. Alexis tugged out her hair and shook her head in an effort to wake her up. That way, she can have her screaming in pain as Alexis tore her apart.

"Wake up you little cunt! I have a nice little surprise for you." she coaxed.

When it dawned on her that this person would not be waking up anytime soon, Alexis let out a grunt of frustration, cursed, and harshly kicked the wall in anger. She picked up the gun from the floor and aimed it down at the body again, she was really tempted to just kill it on the spot, but where would all the fun be in killing a person who's not conscious enough to feel all the pain? Alexis kicked their petite body a bit before that light bulb lit up above her head. The idea was pure genius, and she was sure her "good" half would enjoy it. And as good ol' Mr. Preston always said in Science class, "good ideas should never be wasted".

_Oh no! Please don't do what I think I thought you're thinking. First off speak legibly, second off, shut up. I am doing it. do the world a favor and end it all for both of us. Shut it Diane, you're dead to the world now. This game was made for me, it was made for me, for you, to come in and kill again. That's another time, another place, spray your brains all over the place. Fuckin monster! Get it away! Fuck you, you fucking freak! Alexis, what happened to us?_

Repressing the thoughts, ignoring the pain, breathing shallowly. That's all Alexis needed to do she told herself as she stepped over the stout body of Avery Beaumont, a.k.a. Girl #17, and roughly pulled the dart out from her neck. Then with equal sensitivity, grabbed her by the feet; getting a jumpstart on her plan as she dragged the unconscious girl into the area she began to dub 'her private quarters'.

With her Desert Eagle now holstered and fully loaded, Japanese samurai sword strapped awkwardly to her back, and tranquilizer pistol tugged in the waistline of her denim shorts, Alexis was something of a walking fortress, in her own mind at least. She giggled at the thought. Her crooked, malevolent smile glowing as bright as ever.

_Now if only my head would stop fucking hurting!_


End file.
